


The Zabini Legacy: Slytherin Solidarity

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-22
Updated: 2006-04-16
Packaged: 2019-01-19 20:41:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12417765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: The journal of Blaise Zabini falls open, revealing the story of the last Slytherins before the great battle begins. A house broken and torn from the inside, and the greatest of loves — lost to the ages.





	1. Prologue: The Manifesto of Mr. Blaise Zabini

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**Slytherin Solidarity**  
 **Prologue — The Manifesto of Mr. Blaise Zabini**  
 **Summary:** The journal of Blaise Zabini falls open, revealing the story of the last Slytherins before the great battle begins. A house broken and torn from the inside, and the greatest of loves — lost to the ages.   
**Pairings:** Blaise/Hermione  
 **Category:** Darkfic/drama/romance  
 **Rating:** R   
**Disclaimer:** A non-profit adoration of J.K. Rowling’s characters. Written prior to the release of Half-Blood Prince.

**Author’s Notes:** The summary doesn’t do it justice, truly. The fact of the matter is that _Solidarity_ isn’t about a journal at all — it’s about chaos manifest, and secrecy, and intolerance, and Slytherin house in the onset of the war. It’s about losing friends, trading in your allies, and going mad slowly. It’s about the past, the present, the dead, the living, and the struggle and subsequent failure of power. It’s about breaking everything a person can know and love, and those surviving the damage. It’s about endings. Every second of every day, something draws to a close. _Solidarity_ is about that closure — and what comes _after_.

**N.B.:** Special thanks are extended to my beta, Paia. I owe her many M&Ms for her diligent toil and trouble. This edition was revised in November 2005.

  
**\---**   
**Slytherin Solidarity**   
**Prologue — The Manifesto of Mr. Blaise Zabini**   
**\---**   


With trembling fingers, she tugged the book out — freeing it from its cobwebbed and ash-covered prison of scorched floorboards and refuse. The green-black sheen of the dragonhide had dulled with handling, and the initials on the cover were fading into bare scrapings of gold foil embossed across the journal’s cover.

Nonetheless, she knew it was his. 

No one else would abuse a book quite in the same manner. 

Breathing a little more harshly than necessary, Hermione Granger stumbled backwards, tripping over a fallen beam from the ceiling of the old manor, and landing with a dull thud against the decrepit ruin of the parlour floor. 

A cloud of ash and dust rose around her from her tumble, clinging to the sweat on her face. Streaks of dirt were smeared across her cheeks where she had swatted at her unruly hair. She wet her lips, tasting the earthen grit, and, in her elation, barked a laugh of pure, hysterical delight. 

“Blaise,”� she said, quieting — her voice cracking from the deathly June heat and the dry timbers of the ruined Villa around her. 

Beyond the shattered glass of the windows, the sun’s light began to wane over the large stretch of rolling green hills. Hermione bent the spine of the worn journal, clutching at the loosened parchment that threatened to tumble from the abused stitching. 

Carefully, she turned to the last entry — the paper crackling menacingly beneath her reverent touch. Her exhaustion after three days pursuit was near unbearable, but now, seated amidst the destruction of Zabini manor with the one sign that suggested he had been here — and not two days ago, her strength was renewed.

Scanning the most recent entry, her lips mouthing the words silently as she had grown accustomed to in her last seven years studying with almost vicious abandon, her pace slowed gradually — absorbing the last few lines, before squeezing her eyes shut against the fading glare of the last year. 

The former Gryffindor remained like that for a few moments — breathing in the stale air and soot smell of Blaise’s ruined home, her robes filthy and torn in places, and with his journal pressed tightly against her breast — before she let her shoulders sag, and opened her eyes to the Slytherin’s scrawled penmanship once again. 

A note was scribbled hastily onto the inside of the front cover, a staccato introduction of sorts in his languid cadence that prickled the corners of her eyes and forced her lips to curve downward in a small frown. The ink was very fresh, though it was smudged in places, and it was only when she had finished scanning the page that Hermione allowed herself to draw a shaky breath. Only then did she permit herself to remember as Blaise had...

…

**June 13th, 1997.**  
 **Somerset** **, England**

_The unravelling began as the first russet and gold leaves fell, in the year nineteen hundred and ninety-six, as the weather turned cool and the students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry donned their scarves and pulled their cloaks up to shield them from the sudden chill of an early autumn. There is no ‘once upon a time’, for this is no fairy tale. Rather, this was the beginning of the end as I’ve learned to see it in the year since the Fall._

_My full name is Blaise Domani Luciano Zabini. I am eighteen years old, an Italian by birth but English by rearing. My father, mother, and I left our country when I was still a very small child and my two sisters had not been so much as a twinkle in my father’s eye. In our household, as children, we were taught in the way of our ancestors — the Strega Tradition, passed on through the Italian bloodlines, reaching farther back in history than the Renaissance. True, the name Zabini finds itself entwined with the Medici and the Borgia. These days, I find it almost amusing to shrug off our dark past in the face of those who question how and why we came to subtle influence in the Wizarding world. But even so, these purveyors of the myth of ruthless ambition really had no idea just how persuasive my ancestors were. Our family’s browned and dust-covered collection of poison recipes astounds me still, sometimes._

_If you have found these memoirs, then perchance you will find offered here the explanation that has eluded many, even those who go stolidly into the last battle. What I address here, however, is not the fateful day that creeps slowly towards the wizarding world. In fact, it is with the last battle poised on the cusp that I’ve boarded a boat with the few treasures I’ve stolen from the ruins of Zabini manor, and set sail to Sicily — to find and care for my Grandmother and cousins who will undoubtedly feel the backlash of the greatest battle our race had ever seen._

_By the time you read this, you’ll know that my entire family has been slaughtered, my friendships destroyed, and darkness has come to reign. By now, the magical world has realized it’s shouldered its hopes on the gradually breaking back of someone who is no more than a teenager with a rare streak of luck._

_Harry Potter, I knew him well. A slight boy, clad in spectacles, and clothing that was forever too large, possessing both a physical reminder of his lot in life and the immense pressure of a race slowly going mad; turned rotten from the inside like an apple with a worm eating away at the white flesh near the core. I think about him every now and then, and I think about her._

_But alas, this is not their tale, and I do not wish to engage myself in thoughts about the approaching war. I’ve spent far too many sleepless and lonely nights in hiding, living amidst the rats and the scum of this vile planet, to care any longer about a battle being fought between a madman who lusts for power above all else, and a boy of seventeen who could barely tie his shoes properly half the time._

_It is not my fight; I choose for it not to be — and thus, I am to blame for much suffering. My weaknesses laid the foundations, and from there, we crumbled. A year was all it took. I recall my sweet undoing, my untimely demise in the face of propriety, my broken honour. She ruined it all, and yet I loved her with every fetid breath I took. And still, it gnaws at the places where passion runs deeper than the flesh._

_She will not be harmed._

_I cannot let her be harmed._

_I remember the faces of my housemates; the hollowed look in Ted Nott’s eyes before he took his last breath, Millicent’s broken body lying in the cavernous halls of our dungeon realm on the cold stone floor between the brocaded green bed hangings, Pansy and Tracey clutching at each other as they cried with black cascades of tears streaming, and Draco — proud, stern Draco Malfoy, calm as death before the storm hit. There are days when I miss them so much it aches merely to breathe._

_Let me begin then, this sordid tale, at the start of it all for my broken circle of friends and I, in our seventh year in the college of magic known then and now as Hogwarts._


	2. Canto I: The Death Eater's Son

**Slytherin Solidarity**  
 **Canto I — The Death Eater’s Son**  
 **Summary:** The onset of the school year holds promise for Hogwarts graduating class. For those of ambitious nature, the war has barely lumbered into the public light, but already the Slytherins have begun taking the measures to ensure their survival during the dark times ahead. It is with the blanket of shadow encroaching on one of the safest places in the wizarding world that the first will fall, and here, we begin our tale.  
 **Pairings:** Blaise/Hermione  
 **Category:** Darkfic/drama/romance  
 **Rating:** R   
**Disclaimer:** A non-profit adoration of J.K. Rowling’s characters. Written prior to the release of Half-Blood Prince.  
 **Author’s Notes:** With much love and adoration, I extend huge thanks to my beta, Paia, whose encouragement and frequent whip-crackings have helped nurse this beastie into something tolerable.

  
**\---**   
**Slytherin Solidarity**   
**Canto I — The Death Eater’s Son**   
**\---**   


Absently, Blaise rubbed at a gouge in the worn oak surface — his quill leaving a light splattering of black ink behind where the friction caused his index finger to squeak over the desk. The common room around him was steeped in the subdued murmuring of his studying peers, the air punctuated only by the occasional tinkle of breaking chess pieces.

There was no use blotting the marks from his hands. Rather, he preferred to leave them as signs of his on-going battle with his messy quill-handling. The stains went away with time, after a few showers and his olive flesh was rubbed pink, and ready to accept a new stain from his frequent musings. 

Idly, he traced the contours of the book in from of him — the journal’s pages crackling and lifting at the corners, bearing the abuse and adoration he’d lavished upon it in his last six years at Hogwarts.

\---

**September 9, 1997.**  
 **Hogwarts** **, Scotland**

 _It’s absurd, really, how everything once seemed to be sorted and stuffed away into neat little boxes for later perusal. I suppose the time of reckoning is upon us, the proverbial shit is about to hit the fan._ _We have commenced our seventh year, it’s been no less than a week and a half since classes resumed and the atmosphere has taken a turn for the worst. Externally, Slytherin House prevails under the impending shade of dark days to come. Draco remains the reigning prince of self-indulgent pomp and circumstance, Pansy continues to whittle away at the nerves of every other student with her simpering, and if possible, Greg and Vince have managed to add more force to their grunting and menacing musculature. Inside the safe haven of the dungeons, however, the faÃ§ade crumbles and blows away like dust._

_Illusory. There is no better way to describe a Slytherin other than with such a compacted and nuanced term. I can’t help but think we’ve become a troupe of charlatans; the lines where the marble mask is removed from the prying eyes of the other houses, and the time when everyone can settle back and reinstate normalcy in the sanctity of our common room, has grown withered and faded as of late._

_It’s the onset of the war, of course. Our numbers are waning by the day; general ambivalence is feigning grace._

_In the grand scheme of things, the House has broken down roughly into three categories over the course of the last four years, due to the influence of many people’s parentage and the jingling of galleons in front of their offspring’s faces. Slytherin could now be loosely defined internally by (1) the supporters who went willingly, (2) the supporters who were forced into it, and (3) those who remain hesitant to the whole charade, which generally suggests that they prefer to be non-participatory — choosing to save their own skins before all else, and these are very few in number._

_Of those who were coerced, Terrence Higgs, we’d learned, would blanch three shades whiter if one were to mention the words “inheritance”� and “Dark Lord”�, in the same sentence. Millicent and Daphne have taken turns coming up with associated descriptors that would cause the brunette to falter. On one occasion they’d pushed him so far that, in one day, by repeating certain key phrases like “delayed trust fund”� and “Ministry inheritance taxation policy”�, they caused Higgs to develop a twitch above his left eye._

_He’s right unstable that one. How he’ll fare in the long run, I haven’t the slightest clue. Ironic really, that the manifestations of the Serpents of Slytherin are so poorly misinterpreted. I have yet to find a single Gryffindor, Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw who possesses the faintest idea of the way things actually are, or better yet, who can infiltrate the ranks to gain a clandestine understanding of the Green and Silver’s dynamics and motivations._

_No matter, I’m well shot of it. A year and it’ll be over, for me at least. The promise of freedom, exploration and shelter in Italy is more than I can ask for. Nona has sent word that she’s already begun preparing the Villa in Florence for my arrival next summer. It’s with great restraint that I drag myself through my remaining days here at Hogwarts — already, my heart has ventured southwards. It sits there, enjoying the fruits of the Zabini vineyard and ever-rolling hills that surround our most ancient home, waiting for the rest of my body to catch up._

_To say it’s been rather quiet as of late is an understatement. Even Ted’s relegated himself to the confines of the dormitory or to the non-descript nooks of the dungeons where he can hide himself amidst the shadows. We’ve barely exchanged two words to each other since August. He refuses on all counts to answer my questions, let alone look in my direction much of the time. I’ve grown concerned at his aversion to human contact; it simply isn’t like him — although I could probably summarize in few words what has led him to become so reclusive._

_What will happen in the upcoming weeks, I am uncertain. The war is brewing, the Dark Lord has returned — I’ve heard it in the whispers of my housemates, many of whom have grown unnaturally hushed when not threatened by those from the outside. Perhaps the reality that many of us will have to fight and few will survive has finally become apparent; Draco thinks so. He won’t say anymore than that, however, he’s not the self-sacrificing type. In fact, I don’t think any of us are._

Blaise set down his quill and rubbed at his temples thoughtfully, smudging the leftover ink on his right hand across his forehead in the gesture.

Scowling, he shook an unruly black curl into his eyes to conceal the mark.

Across the common room, Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe frowned over two long lengths of parchment, and Draco was seated on one of the leather divans facing the fire, not really focusing on anything, but merely staring blankly into the crackling hearth. Though his expression was unreadable, Blaise knew if he turned Drake around and looked hard into the boy’s slate grey eyes, he would see the gears turning with a ferociousness that went unrivalled in their year, save perhaps for the Granger chit in Gryffindor and a stray Ravenclaw or two — and that was not a likely compliment he’d pay to his housemate. 

Unless, of course, Blaise wished to be disembowelled for one of Malfoy’s extra credit Potions experiments.

The atmosphere in Slytherin House had changed drastically since the students' return to Hogwarts. There were no more noisy games of exploding snap; no light tinkling of breaking chess pieces. Instead, the House had drawn inwards and chosen to ensconce itself in pensive silence, rather than becoming outwardly explosive like the Gryffindors, or bawling loudly and haplessly like the Hufflepuffs. A deeper preoccupation unsettled those who sported the legendary silver and green.

His housemates weren’t languishing, exactly — there was simply no time for it. The silence wrought from the impending battle was dappled with the thoughts of calculation; many of them were laying the foundations of their survival, Blaise knew. No longer children who could carry on under the protective wing of their family legacies, they had come to it at last. 

Strictly speaking, the Slytherins were learning exactly what it meant to fend for themselves.

Slumped over his journal, Blaise did his best to mentally will away his rapidly encroaching headache. Having spent the first week of classes attempting to re-orient himself and his marginally adequate study habits for their N.E.W.T. year, the wrathful, sharp little pain jabbing like needles beyond his eye sockets had become a persistent and steadily mounting nuisance since the start of term. 

It could have been nerves; surely, he reasoned as he pulled his ink bottle towards him and capped it firmly. Though it was more than likely at this point, that the mounting pressure in his skull had begun the moment Blaise realized a large carrion bird had perched itself over the Slytherins. In its shadow, the dark-haired Zabini heir had sat back, stunned, and watched as the seeds of dissent had been sown amidst his housemates. 

It had begun with Theodore Nott. 

A glance around the low-ceilinged common room confirmed the presence of the wan, sandy-haired youth was not too far off. Slumped over a desk in a far corner, Ted cloaked himself in the stretching shadows on the far side of the hearth fire, gripping his messy tangle of hair in both fists.

Fondly referred to as Teddy or Timmy by the ladies of the House — but never _ever_ by his full name, he remained one of Blaise’s oldest friends. Nott was the first person with whom the young Italian had been acquainted upon arriving in England, when he was still a plump, round-faced bambino of five — just barely off the boat from Florence, where his family hailed from. 

Ted was, at age five and three-quarters, the diabolical spawn of the lesser of seven demons straight out of Hades. A wicked sense of humour and several well-placed dungbombs after their first encounter, Zabini and Nott had become fast friends. The eldest of three children, Theodore was the sandy-haired, ashen-faced brother that Blaise never had, and their parents frequently had to pry them apart from their daily excursions around their respective Somerset manor houses. 

On several occasions the boys had “pretended”� to get lost in the Nott hedge maze so they wouldn’t be forced to separate and return to their own dwellings, which were a shy hundred and fifty acres away from each other. Wistfully, Blaise recalled the impromptu blood ritual of sorts the pair had enacted at age nine, where although they hadn’t intended for anything to actually fuse magically, they managed to slice open their palms on a sharp shard of shale and create a bond of sorts between them. Oddly enough, their “blood brother”� rite had actually established something of a link between the two, regardless of the fact that they were both too young and too stupid to realize the fortitude of the magic involved. 

Tucking away his quill, Blaise rubbed the thin scar on his palm — the action causing a thin fizzle of magical energy to wind around his wrist. Simultaneously, across the room, Ted looked up sharply, flexing the fist closest to his right ear as if he were trying to rid himself of the reminder of their waning connection.

For years after, Blaise could have sworn he knew exactly what was going through his friend’s head whenever he was feeling some particularly strong emotion. Ted would swear he saw Zabini’s comforting face in his dreams whenever he’d have nightmares, which, incidentally, had become more frequent over the last seven years. 

Nott Senior was one of the Dark Lord’s minions, after all. Given the fact that the boy he’d chosen as his rival had thus far been unsuccessful in his defeat, the majority of the wizarding world was still putting up with his murderous and maniacal bullshit. 

So, it was nothing of a shock to Blaise when over the summer, he awoke with the feeling that his left forearm was being scorched from the inside out. A bubbling, festering pain that caused him to rip apart his brocaded hangings and retch over the side of the bed consumed him, complete with the resonant screams he heard through his dreams for the following weeks. 

Ted had turned seventeen, and as he was of age, his father had promptly delivered him to the Dark Lord without hesitation.

Such was the method by which the English families with Death Eaters for fathers functioned. Their sons and daughters were never given the option of impartiality when it came to matters of the war.

Blaise sighed heavily, leaning back in his preferred armchair — an austere monstrosity vacated by Marcus Flint some years prior — and stretched his spine until his vertebrae popped with several satisfying snaps. 

Again, Blaise thumbed the scar on his palm — causing Ted across the room to twitch visibly, and the incessant pounding behind his eyes to gain a notch in ferocity.

“Ted, would you get a potion for that, mate?”� he called across the room, while pinching the bridge of his nose. The sympathy pains were thankfully blunted most of the time. But on the rare occasion, especially when Ted was feeling a particularly strong sentiment, the purity of the discomfort, the sheer sharpness of the mutual invasion, was enough to drive Blaise mad.

In response, the young man merely hunched his shoulders and drew himself lower to the desk. 

“ _Merda_ ,”� Blaise swore to himself, snapping his journal shut. Preparing to cross the distance to his friend and talk some sense into the brooding prat, Ted’s head rose slowly, a lock of unkempt ashen hair falling over his forehead as he turned to look at Blaise. 

The sunken glaze of his eyes, dark crescents staining the pale skin below, and the strained, sallow quality to the angles of his face in the flickering torchlight were enough to cause Blaise to start, hesitating just long enough to realize how long it had been since Ted had seemed remotely normal. Dreadful was not a proper descriptor. He looked mentally and physically battered — stretched thin like a battered cobweb facing the onslaught of a mid-winter’s gale. 

Meeting Blaise’s concerned appraisal, Ted shook his head once and rose from his seat, preparing to escape to a place where his former best-friend either couldn’t find him, or couldn’t reach him. 

They’d been playing this cat and mouse game for the last nine days, and Zabini was beginning to tire of his role. 

“Ted?”� Blaise asked cautiously, lifting himself from the snug nest of the armchair and catching the cold draft of dungeon air on the parts of his body that had been comfortably warm only moments before. 

Nott tugged at his robe sleeve, further concealing the burnt marking on his left arm, should anyone spy him and press him with excited and fearful questions. The fact that Ted hated it was palpable; even that much Blaise could garner without asking the question outright and bitter on his tongue, as clear as if Ted had spat the words himself. 

Both boys stood at full height, on opposite ends of the commons, facing off not for the first time. Those around them scribbling onto their parchments or talking quietly took no note of the two young men, and it was thus that Blaise was the only person to see Theodore Nott mouth the words, “ _I’m sorry_ ,”� before bolting from his chair, robes flapping behind him, and escaping down the stairs to the boys’ dormitory. 

Cramming his journal into his book bag and leaping from his spot, the black haired boy was quickly cut off in his pursuit by a firm, “Don’t,”� echoing off the walls of the chamber.

Malfoy hadn’t moved in his seat other than to turn his head slightly and talk over his shoulder. Seeing that the Italian had paused mid-stride, he returned his gaze the hearth fire, permitting Blaise to descend on him in six feet two inches of indignant fury. 

“Don’t _what_ , Malfoy?”� he seethed, as he stormed around the couch and stood over the lithe blond. “He may not be on your list of priorities right now, but he is definitely on mine! That,”� Blaise jabbed a finger roughly towards the staircase, his book bag sliding off a shoulder slightly with the rough gesture, “is my oldest friend. You’ll be damned before you tell me what to do when it comes to him.”�

“Has it not occurred to you, Zabini, that perhaps he has nothing to say to us anymore?”� Draco returned evenly.

Blaise balked. “The hell are you on about, Malfoy?”� 

The blond lifted his grey eyes upwards, and locked on the contorting, dark-featured face above him. Blaise loomed over him, his anger bubbling at the meddlesome, snot-nosed son of a pureblood aristocrat. A firm diet of pasta and seafood in his childhood had caused him to develop an athletic build early on; to say his figure was imposing was an understatement. It helped, of course, being a member of Slytherin house — a student learned the necessary survival skills within their first three days. 

“Solidarity, Blaise,”� he said evenly. “He thinks that it’s best for the house.”�

Blaise gaped at the smaller boy, undecided as to whether he could sock him in the jaw without incurring the wrath of the recently-freed Lucius, or actually allow the boastful, commandeering public relations representative of Slytherin have his say. While Blaise fumbled for a reply to his particularly ludicrous statement, Draco merely took in his housemate’s expression and nodded to the open space on the couch next to him. Incensed, Blaise slumped onto the divan and turned to glare at the younger Malfoy. 

Composing himself, Blaise uttered only one word to his comrade and housemate, “Explain.”�

True, Blaise was only vaguely familiar with the inner workings of the older British wizarding families — his own father could never absorb the loyalties of the English when his heart still resided with the clan of their homeland. Rather, the Zabini family interests lay in the ancient catacombs of Florence and Rome, and among the floating streets of Venice. Their ancestry and bloodlines took root in a place untouched and untainted by the Dark Wizard’s influence. Guillermo, his Papa, placed his stock in tradition — something that only came away in parts from his birthplace when they immigrated. The conquest and subsequent struggle for power here, he claimed, was total rubbish. 

Draco cleared his throat, but his expression remained bored as he began. “We are a house like family. You’ve been here as long as I have to understand how Slytherin is perceived. Yet the goals and values of this house have never wavered from the time it was established. Our tenets have ever been the same; loyalty, lineage, pride, power. These are values that have been passed on to many of us from our parents, and to them from our grandparents, and to them from our great grandparents — and so follow the line of tradition. For many pureblood English families whose children have grown up in Slytherin, the ethical code has been carved in stone for generations. The other houses have left us bereft, cast us out, deemed us snobbish, elitist, partisan, _evil_ even — and so we turned inwards to those who had like values.”�

“Together we stand…”� Blaise interjected.

“Divided we fall. Exactly.”� Draco glanced at him then, the slate grey of his eyes roiling and stormy. “When the Dark Lord came to power the first time, many of our parents chose to side with him because he was a compelling leader — he spoke of values that concerned the fading wizarding bloodlines.”� He shrugged. “It was a matter of self-preservation in the light of a potentially dying species of wizards. You see, it’s always been a practiced tradition to keep the magic among us strong. The idea may seem a little medieval these days, but I’m sure you’ll agree with me when I say that when the notion of blood purity came about, genetics were never a question.”�

Blaise nodded.

“It’s all so stupidly Machiavellian really.”� Malfoy snorted derisively and waved his hands in a dramatic manner. “The end justifies the means.”� He chuckled. 

“Anyhow, many of our parents were swayed by his motivations and moving speeches. More pomp and circumstance than actual substance, if you ask me. A lot of families were killed in the first wave when they realized how far he was willing to go to achieve power; annihilated because they thought that murder and torture were not appropriate methods to maintain the bloodlines,”� he said, quirking an eyebrow at Blaise in a self-deprecating manner. “For those who remained, it became a matter of staunching the flow from the wound, so to speak. A lot of our parents will never admit it - and with good reason, I might add - but they remain supporters of You-Know-Who because going against him would mean killing off another line of pureblood wizards.”�

Draco’s lip curled. “It’s disgusting, wizards grovelling to scrape up more power for themselves. Prostrating themselves like common vermin. Like mudbl-”� 

“Alright, Draco,”� Blaise cut him off, rubbing his temples to sooth the mounting ache in his skull.

“But it’s a matter of preserving the wizarding race that comes before all else.”� He looked at Blaise with barely feigned condescension. “It’s a matter of saving ourselves.”�

“I follow you, but what does this have to do with us, exactly? What does it have to do with Nott?”�

Draco surveyed his friend shrewdly for a moment before replying.

“He has the Mark.”�

“I know but —”�

“Which means,”� he continued as patiently as he could, “it’s his turn to choose. It’s _our_ time to choose, Blaise. If it was up to Nott’s father to make that decision for him, what do you think the inevitable outcome will be if he rebels against his calling?”�

The two wizards assessed each other in the flickering firelight. Blaise ran a hand roughly through his hair and exhaled, he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. Assuming his best impassive stare, he replied evenly, “Ted’s a better person than you think he is.”� 

Draco scoffed, his lip curling as he leaned towards his housemate, “You didn’t answer the question.”� 

There was a gleam to his eyes Blaise hadn’t noticed before; it made them flash steely in the low light of the common room. “That despicable sack of shit that played a part in conceiving Theo hadn’t the right. But he’s family — Ted would have disgraced his father if he’d done otherwise. Ultimately, we,”� he gestured broadly at the common room at large, “are his true family. But we are not Gryffindors.”� He sneered. “We will not go brazenly into battle without assessing our alliances beforehand, without taking the measures to ensure that we not only survive, but we prosper. Haven’t you noticed how Nott’s been behaving? Last year we could barely pry the pair of you apart — and now he’s chucked all of his social alliances out the window. He knows exactly what he’s doing, Zabini. I’m sure of it.”�

Blaise snorted, sending a fresh shock of pain to his temples, “That is some seriously fucked up, flawed logic, Malfoy.”�

Draco looked taken aback before he smirked and leaned into the leather divan, carelessly throwing an arm across the backrest in a gesture that was reminiscent of the belligerent, obnoxious little prat that Blaise had grown up with. It made him grin stupidly at the familiarity of one simple gesture, and put him largely at ease.

“Not at all, Zabini, not a smidge,”� he drawled. “Most of us don’t put our stock in a tradition such as your own. You can’t tell me that you don’t see your family differently than I see mine. My father’s a bastard, a _brilliant_ bastard, but at least he has the stamina to maintain his power in light of all that’s happened since Potter levelled the playing field. I respect him for it. I _admire_ him for it.”� He shrugged nonchalantly. “Nott’s father’s a bastard — but for a different reason.”�

“He dragged him from his bed at three thirty in the morning on his birthday to drop him at the feet of the Dark Lord,”� Blaise said flatly.

“Point,”� Draco nodded as if confirming Blaise’s very thought. “Both of these men would gladly offer us up like lambs to the slaughter if it meant advancement for them. It’s like that in all pureblood families. If you can’t float when they chuck you into the pond for the first time, you’re not a worthwhile heir. 

“Pansy’s mum has been trying to marry her off for years, and Millie’s been the object of criticism and loathing as long as she can remember because she wasn’t born a boy to carry on the Bulstrode pedigree.”� He nodded towards Crabbe and Goyle, still scowling over their parchment a few yards away. “Those two barely speak to their parents. Products of neglect, they are.”� Draco leaned forwards putting his elbows on his knees. “Goyle has never even received a hug from his mother — ever. Last summer he told me that one of his house elves nursed him.”�

Blaise cocked an eyebrow, well that certainly explained a lot. 

“The point is,”� Draco continued, “we’re all products of dysfunctional family situations. Save for you, of course,”� he added with a bitter smile.

He was right, of course; the Zabinis were typical of a large Italian family — through and through, closely knit. The fact that they were wizards did nothing to hinder the fact that their blood was stronger for it by far, emotionally and physically. If he couldn’t rely on them for their meddlesome, protective ways that were invariably steeped in something far stronger than custom — the brew wrought of kin, love and honour — Blaise would be very much alone and nowhere near the person he was without their efforts. 

They were a loud lot. Every slight thing that happened turned into a melodrama where someone would either beat their breast and tear their robes, or gush, kiss cheeks with wet smacks, and proselytize at top volume. Being raised in England, however, Blaise had skilfully tiptoed around his family’s mannerisms and managed to rear himself in a way that was demure and sophisticated in front of others, only rarely showing glimpses of his most basic instincts that involved noisy conversation and frequent fits of passion. He liked to think his family were romantic, in a raw and unbridled sort of way. 

“So,”� Draco said imperiously, “while it may seem foreign, Nott does, in fact, have his head screwed on straight for once.”� 

Blaise sneered openly, ignoring the pressure of his headache as it moved from a dull throb to a persistent pulsating agony. “I don’t see how being reclusive in light of recent circumstances contributes to house unity. In fact, it seems like the exact bloody opposite of what Slytherin stands for; he might as well throw himself at the mercy of the Hufflepuffs if he’s going to continue on acting like he’s above and beyond all this by trying to escape it.”�

Draco’s features hardened quickly. “He’s trying to protect us,”� Malfoy hissed. “It’s the best bloody thing he can do right now! Unless, of course, you think having a known Junior Death Eater running around is the safest policy for this house.”�

“Malfoy, I think you’ve underestimated the numbers. There are plenty of You-Know-Who’s minions around here who do their job dutifully, and Ted isn’t one of them!”� Blaise’s head was beginning to throb viciously — the pain no longer a dull prickle, but an assaulting itch that was growing rapidly.

“Do you think I don’t realize that?”� he spat back. “It’s not what he’s willing to do; it’s what’s expected of him now that he has the brand on him!”� Malfoy was shaking visibly now, in a fury or in fright, it was hard to discern. He’d begun casting glances around the room to see if their discussion had been overheard. 

“He won’t do it,”� Blaise said firmly, and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“Of course not, you sod! The problem is what he’s going to do instead!”� Malfoy’s voice rose an octave; it did absolutely nothing for the ache between Blaise’s temples. 

“Stop shouting Malfoy, please,”� Blaise tried to reason. It was one thing for Draco to lose his temper on a reasonably good day, but with the pounding in Blaise’s temples he didn’t think he could take it much longer. 

“I’m not shouting!”� Draco hissed petulantly.

Blaise ignored him, deciding instead his headache was amplifying the sound a hundredfold. “Well he won’t turn spy, if that’s what you mean. Not with his father,”� he muttered.

Draco paled visibly and slumped back against the couch. 

“No, he wouldn’t.”� Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, it was the last thing Blaise saw before his vision blurred out of focus, the pain in his skull reaching a crescendo. He wouldn’t be able to make it up the stairs to Pomfrey for a potion if it got any worse. 

“He won’t run, either. The Dark Lord always finds his servants,”� Draco mused in an undertone.

Blaise’s head was screaming, the edges of his peripheral vision darkening. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly as the first wave of nausea hit him.

“Something’s wrong…”� he mumbled, attempting to reign in his gorge. 

He didn’t know it, but later, Draco would tell him, he began to sway in his seat from the dizziness. 

“What is, Zabini?”� Draco’s words were muffled, like there was cotton in his ears. His tongue felt odd in his mouth, like he was going to be sick. 

“Blaise?”� Draco’s voice was coming from far away. But it didn’t sound right; it didn’t have the sharp accent that Draco’s aristocratic tongue carried. It sounded curiously like… Ted?

Blaise dragged himself to the edge of the couch, balling his hands into fists and leaning onto his knees, and prepared to vomit onto the woven hearth rug. 

As fast as it had come, the pain ceased entirely. 

Blaise stilled, and looked down at his polished black school regulation shoes, blinking ostensibly and relishing in the pure pleasure of a cleared head.

“Blaise?”� Draco had scooted closer and placed a measuring hand on his back. 

He gathered himself and began to stand when his vision became overrun with colourful spots, his equilibrium lapsed, and he blacked out completely into swirling darkness.

_Blaise? Tell my mother, Blaise. Tell her I love her and none of this is her fault…. Tell Samuel and Edsel to run; tell them to hide… Keep them safe, Blaise — Save yourself, Blaise. Blaise._ Blaise _._

“Blaise!”� A hand was slapping at his cheek firmly. He cracked an eye open to see Pansy hovering over him on his right. She looked wan and tired, but her blue eyes were alarmed and wide as she smacked him again roughly on the cheek. 

“Alright, Pansy, alright!”� He swore and attempted to bring himself to a seated position. A thick knuckled hand was placed firmly on his shoulder as Goyle brought his torso back firmly against the couch with a grunt.

“You shouldn’t be moving,”� Tracey Davis admonished from his left. She looked nearly as burnt out as Pansy did, but her light brown eyes smouldered, nonetheless. His friends may seem outwardly haggard, but at least the fire still burned brightly within, he reassured himself while trying to prop himself up again. 

“The hell happened?”� he asked, rubbing his head. His skin was dead clammy, the stupid dungeons always causing a person’s circulation to practically freeze in their veins. 

“You passed out like an effing pansy, Zabini,”� was Draco’s wry reply, the boy standing in front of him with a smirk on his face and arms folded. 

“Hey!”� Pansy sniped from his right.

Draco smirk broadened, “No offence, love.”�

From somewhere behind them, the breaking voice of Terrence Higgs could be heard grumbling acerbically, “Maybe we should take him to Madame Pomfrey.”�

“No one’s taking me anywhere,”� Blaise bit out. 

“Nah,”� Draco said. “The tough guy needs a little rest is all.”� 

Blaise tried glaring at the blond, but managed to crack a grin. Leave it to Malfoy to lighten the mood with understated verbal abuse. 

Just then, the common room’s stone door that blended flawlessly with the south wall swung open admitting Millicent Bulstrode, who was huffing with a load of books in her arms. It was a running joke among the Slytherins that they had their very own Granger to poke fun at from time to time. Unfortunately for Millie, she didn’t get half as many O.W.L.’s as the muggle-born had in fifth year. 

Thankfully, the square-jawed, burly girl had learned early to brush off the quip, and refrained from beating the snot out of them the majority of the time. Rather, she kept her pounding sessions reserved for errant Hufflepuffs, when she could get her hands on them, at least. 

“What’s this then?”� she puffed, dropping her pile of books next to Blaise on the couch, and swiping at her sweaty brow with a robesleeve. “Effing Zabini getting all the attention again?”�

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Sure Millie, they’re just fawning all over me, the rogue Bacchus that I am. Feeding me grapes and watering me with wine and such.”� He gestured languidly from beneath Goyle’s meaty knuckle, still pinioning him to the couch. “Chop chop, pick up the damned palm frond and get to work.”� He grinned at the pink flush in her cheeks as her eyes narrowed.

“I’ll have your bits for that, Blaise.”� She scowled for a moment before looking at Draco for an answer.

“We were just on our way to bed, Mil,”� he drawled. 

“Room for one more then?”� She grinned at him lasciviously. “You _do_ know how to proposition a girl, Malfoy. I’m flattered,”� she said, batting her dark eyelashes.

Draco spluttered, a pink tinge grazing his marble-white skin. 

“I’ve already tried, Mil,”� Pansy said mournfully from the couch, twirling a lock of her short black bob around her index finger. “He just refuses to swing that way.”� Millicent grinned at Draco’s mounting indignation. 

Blaise glanced over his shoulder at Goyle and Crabbe who were watching the playful banter. Seeing that they weren’t about to strap him back down to the couch again, he rose from his seat and began to proceed towards the stairs leading down to the boys’ dormitories. 

Sleep would definitely be a good thing, for everyone in fact. Soon, the witty banter would turn into sniping and spitting, and Blaise was sure that there was plenty ahead that they could all do without. 

“Oi! Zabini!”� Draco strode quickly, his chest puffed out and arms swinging easily to catch up. Turning to Crabbe and Goyle, he gave them a questioning look to see if they’d follow. The pair glanced at each other and shrugged, Crabbe muttering, “Breakfast comes sooner the earlier we crash.”�

Loosening his tie, Draco threw Blaise a look, the pale eyebrow arching in a manner that was beginning to resemble Lucius more and more each day.

“What?”�

“What do you mean, ‘what’?”�

Blaise rolled his eyes skywards. “You’re exasperating, Malfoy. Spit it out.”�

Draco harrumphed, and muttered. “You were mumbling some really strange shite back there.”�

Blaise quirked an eyebrow and paused on the stair. “Like?”�

Draco shook his head and continued downwards. The oak door with a small silver plaque reading, “Fifth Years”� passed on their left. 

“Something about your mother and Samuel, and someone called Easel?”�

“Edsel,”� he said, glancing askance at the blond boy. “Those are Ted’s brother and sister.”�

“Is that so?”� Draco asked. His brow furrowed as he paused at the last landing before their dorm. 

“Yeah, what else did I say?”� Blaise queried, as he pushed the door to the dormitory open and they filed inside, Crabbe and Goyle a few feet behind them. Scanning the room, Blaise noted that the green and silver brocade of Ted’s bed hangings were drawn shut, as was the door to their adjoining bathroom, though the light seemed to be on inside. 

He sighed, turning to his dresser, and beginning to rummage for a clean pair of pyjama bottoms. 

It was the same thing every night for the last two weeks. If there was one thing Blaise knew, it was that it simply wasn’t like Nott to shut himself away — Ted made a point of embellishing his bad days, especially while in the company of the prettier girls from Slytherin.

Meanwhile, Draco had crossed to his drawers behind the heavy oak door, and was pulling out his tailored pyjamas. “Something about telling your mother…”�

Blaise’s brain snapped into action, like a dream slipping out of a crevice from the depths of the subconscious mind, and rising towards the surface too fast to right itself, before bursting forth and gasping for air. 

“…That I was sorry?”� 

The disembodied voice came back to him in a flash, or rather, what felt like the slamming of an anvil. Eyes wide, Blaise ripped around his bed posts and tore apart Ted’s bed hangings. 

Across the room, Goyle grunted a muffled, “What the fuck?”�

Ted’s bed was stark, the sheets and coverlet folded neatly — he hadn’t even touched it. 

Crabbe was quick to follow Goyle’s exclamation. “Hey, the floor’s wet. It’s sopping through the carpet.”�

Blaise turned towards the bathroom, with its harsh light glinting around the door frame. Heart pounding in his ears, he stalked over to Goyle’s side, a few feet in front of the lavatory. Sure enough, the carpet was soaked through, the dark green weave nearly black in the torchlight. 

His breath hitched when he realized his feet were sticking to the floor. 

It wasn’t water.

Frozen to the spot, with his lungs rattling a shallow breath that barely sent any oxygen to his brain, it was Draco who pushed past them and turned the pewter knob to the bathroom. 

And froze.

Stumbling forward, Blaise scarcely managed to catch himself on Draco’s shoulder as he took in the sight before him. Ted lay sprawled on the sterile white tile, wand resting on the sink, with the black and steel handle of a straight razor tossed carelessly into a corner.

Everything else in the otherwise gleaming bathroom was red; a sickening, congealing crimson that seeped into the corners, into the cracks and mortar of the tile, and covered the floor in large pools and splatters. 

Streaks made by clutching finger tips covered the claw-footed bathtub and the pedestal of the nearby sink. Ted lay motionless at the very center of the gristly pool, hazel eyes dulled and staring at the ceiling. Across his left arm, where he’d pulled back his school robes, were several long, deep gashes cut right through the blackened symbol of a skull and serpent.

Blaise heard the screaming then, echoing off the walls in the stark chamber — it wouldn’t be until much later that he realized the keen poured out of his own lungs.

Scrawled and dripping across the stark white tile of the west wall in vicious oxidized scarlet were the words, “I’m sorry.”�

The war had claimed its first victim, and he was one of their own.


	3. Canto II: In this Haze of Green and Gold

**Slytherin Solidarity**  
 **Canto II — In This Haze of Green and Gold**  
 **Summary:** Dawn breaks over Slytherin House, forcing the Seventh-years to forge onwards despite the loss of Theodore Nott. Some truths begin floating to the surface, as Blaise struggles with what it means to be clad in green and silver, and with the war just peeking over the horizon.   
**Pairings:** Blaise/Hermione  
 **Category:** Darkfic/drama/romance  
 **Rating:** R   
**Disclaimer:** A non-profit adoration of J.K. Rowling’s characters. This is an AU set in seventh year, started well before the release of HBP. As such, the Blaise Zabini depicted here is of the fanon variety.

\---  
 **Slytherin Solidarity**  
 **Canto II — In This Haze of Green and Gold**  
 **\---**  


Respite is not an easy thing to muster. It’s not something that can be sought out or galvanized through years of experience while hardening the outer shell of an individual’s personality. Blaise Zabini was well aware of this particular breed of mourning, having lost his grandmother on his mother’s side several years before — the feeling that congealed in his chest was much the same. It was a heavy, leaden sadness that coated his lungs and made breathing immensely difficult.

Caressing the soft, straight black strands of Pansy’s hair, fanned across his lap, with his free hand, Blaise swallowed his tears and refused to let a single drop fall and disturb the girl in her sleep.

While he hadn’t the faintest idea why Ted would do something so violent, so foolhardy — Blaise was diligently maintaining that if he let the barest glimmer of his sadness through, the floodgate would open and he would be swept away in the torrent. 

He would not be able to pull himself out of it.

At this point, it was bad enough that he couldn’t hold his quill steady. Furious with himself, he forced his hand to remain steady, and continued to frown at the journal perched on the armrest beside Pansy’s head.

**September 10, 1997.**   
**Hogwarts** **, Scotland**

_Ted’s dead._

The two words stared up at him from the weathered parchment of the dragonhide-bound book, but it didn’t make it anymore real. Over the mantelpiece, the clock chimed four a.m. Dawn would break soon, and then the school would explode with the news. 

_And Draco told me not to go to him._

Blaise pinched the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger, a gesture reminiscent of the night past, during his conversation with Draco. He couldn’t look at his mates directly, though they were seated around him like a protective battalion. 

_And I listened to him._

He dropped his quill, dotting the hearth rug with a fine spotting of black ink. Pansy mumbled incoherently in her sleep and kneaded his right thigh like a pillow. Why she wasn’t snuggling with Malfoy was beyond him, so Blaise merely continued gnawing the inside of his mouth, and mentally willed the tightness in his chest to fade as the scene replayed itself for the hundredth time that morning behind his tired eyes.

Draco had physically restrained him, joined by Millicent not long after, clutching at his sides and cradling his head to her ample chest. The girls had barged into their dorm shortly after he’d begun screaming — he’d woken the entire house bellowing Theodore Nott’s name over and over until he’d grown hoarse from the effort. 

It had been Higgs who’d had the fortitude to get Snape, and Snape to summon Dumbledore and Pomfrey. Everything thereafter was a blur of red, white, and green. 

There had been so much blood — on the walls, the floors, congealing in the grouted tile and sopping through the carpets as Ted’s life spilled over the room divider and crept its way through their dormitory. The professors had draped the lifeless body in linen, and bundled the carpets to take them for cleaning. 

Blaise hoped they’d burn them. 

He recalled Draco’s speech; the magic is in the blood, and bit down on his lip to keep from howling again.

The word “ _Don’t,_ ”� echoed eerily in his exhausted mind, guiltily settling upon his shoulders and thrusting its claws deep into the flesh. 

He was a fool, and his hesitation had cost his friend his life. 

For the moment, however, he would cast aside the leaden pith in its convoluted and seething bundle and suffer the slings of grief silently. In turn, his journal lay open beneath his hand, the few words he’d written over the course of the night glaringly stark and listless on the yellowed parchment. 

The wrenching emptiness of the severed magical bond between him and Ted, however, was a limitless trench that was carved so deep that Blaise couldn’t conceive where it began and where it ended. There were no words he could inscribe on paper to express it, so the wizard sat, head bowed, and waited for the dawn to break.

Seated in Draco’s usual place facing the hearth fire, he did not wish to glance at the table and chairs where Ted had sat only hours before. He wanted no reminders of the ghostly trail left by his best ally when he had yet to weep for him. 

He looked down at the delicate girl on his lap, noting the remnants of dried tears on her cheeks. She’d cried herself into exhaustion and fallen asleep where she lay. Draco, however, was stolid — he hadn’t broken yet, and nor had Crabbe or Goyle. The three were sitting in chairs opposite; Goyle snoring lightly, his chin dropped onto his shoulder.

Higgs was another matter altogether. He’d remained awake most of the night, curled into a foetal position with his arms hugging his knees. Every half hour or so, his breathing would change and he’d hyperventilate for a good five minutes, before picking up a paper Honeydukes bag nearby and breathing into it harshly. 

Fantastic Death Eater that one would make, Blaise sneered inwardly. 

Sometimes, it was much better to be vindictive and spiteful. Generally, acting as such blunted every other disconsolate and errant feeling — or at least it did according to Malfoy. This time, however, it only made Blaise feel ill. Cruelty seemed futile amidst people who were suffering just as he was.

Intermittently, Tracey would wake from a half-sleep with a harsh gasp, her dreams chased by nightmares since she’d fallen to slumber. Draco would reach over every time her eyes snapped open and stroke the palm of her hand until she’d settle once again, all the while never removing his gaze from the crackling fire. 

Lastly, Millicent had locked herself in the girl’s shower. Daphne reported around two o’clock that the large girl had stopped howling into the running water, but had refused to come out thereafter.

It wasn’t until nearly six in the morning that the common room door opened and Professor Snape entered, looking sombre, with a sallow-faced Millicent shuffling behind him. 

“Slytherins,”� he addressed them, his tone grave as the black-clad man gently guided Millie to a seat near Crabbe, who opened his arms and pulled her onto his lap with a muffled grunt. She was shivering visibly and her wiry hair was still damp. Snape looked at each of them, the lines around his eyes more visible than ever. His gaze rested on Blaise for a moment before turning to address them as a group. 

“As Seventh-years, you are looked up to by the younger members of this house. A great tragedy has befallen us, but we cannot show weakness in the face of adversity. Although it grieves me to have to tell you this, I expect each of you to be present at breakfast this morning.”�

Blaise blanched.

“We must not,”� Snape continued, seeing their horrified expressions, “lose sense of ourselves entirely. It will take great strength of character from each of you, but the younger students will look to you for both guidance and succour.”� 

The Professor looked diminished and worn, regardless of what he was telling them; it sounded as if he did not like it one bit. 

Pansy had roused herself from Blaise’s lap and was now clinging to his arm. A glance at the girl showed her lip to be quivering. 

“You will be excused from lessons for the next few days, but your presence is crucial at mealtimes.”� At this, the teacher visibly stiffened, and a familiar, hard look came over his features. 

“I will not have my students wasting away from lack of proper diet and sleep, is that understood?”� He gave them all a penetrating look. “You will all need to be strong, for yourselves, for the house, and for the school.”� 

Draco straightened in his seat and an impassive look claimed his angular features. 

The Professor was right, of course. The facade they presented to the other houses would determine if anyone could break them. From Draco’s expression, and the groused appearance of both Crabbe and Goyle, Blaise knew that regardless of how they felt, none would let anyone see it. 

Tracey’s lips were set in a straight line, and Daphne was rubbing her eyes, wiping away the last tears and beginning to harden her expression. 

“You all have my permission to use the Prefect’s bathroom on the fifth floor, as the Seventh-year boys’ dormitory will need to be cleaned. You will find a fresh change of clothes for each of you, as well as some of your personal belongings already there for your use. Since I may not offer this privilege solely to the young men in my presence, this invitation is extended to the ladies as well. Please see to it, Ms. Parkinson, that you keep that quivering lip in check.”�

She nodded, clutching Blaise around the bicep a little more forcefully than necessary, though her lip continued to tremble slightly. 

“Ms. Bulstrode, although you have spent the better part of the night in the showers, you may accompany your housemates as well. I do not expect any of you to be separated over the next few days. In fact, I would advise against it strongly. It would not be prudent to let your guards down, I daresay, regardless of whatever misfortunes befall this house; your fellow students may attempt to test your resolve.”� 

He grimaced, folding his arms. 

“I cannot stop any of you from being reactionary, though do try to maintain some semblance of decorum if you feel you must rise to their remarks — especially you, Mr. Malfoy.”� Snape shot him a look, though once he turned his back, Draco sneered openly. 

“I will return this evening if any of you wish to share counsel privately.”� At that, Snape made a point of looking at Blaise. He felt his back unintentionally stiffen as he gave the Professor a curt nod. 

Having delivered his speech, the older man turned to sweep out of the room. At the door, he paused, and addressed Blaise over his shoulder. 

“When you are ready, Mr. Zabini, the Headmaster wishes to have a word with you.”�

“Thank you, sir,”� he replied without hesitation. 

As the teacher left, Blaise threw a cautious look at Pansy, and carefully pried her fingers from his upper arm. There would be bruises, of course, but Blaise knew he wouldn’t feel them for some time; the message delivered by their Professor had rendered him numb, completely and utterly. 

“The Headmaster?”� Pansy hissed. “What would he want?”�

Blaise frowned. 

“Condolences,”� Malfoy spat. “Miserable old fool.”�

A dull tingling spread through his fingers as Blaise reached for his journal. 

“It’ll be the only place we’ll be getting any of that,”� Tracey muttered bitterly, hauling both she and Daphne to their feet. 

Blaise snapped the book shut and folded it into an interior pocket of his robes. 

“No surprise there,”� he murmured as he stood and helped Pansy collect herself enough to slide back into her shoes. 

Draco nodded and also rose, followed quickly by Goyle and Crabbe, who hefted a weak-limbed Millicent along with him. 

The only person who remained seated and shaking was Higgs, though he was quickly grabbed by his collar and pulled to a standing position by Goyle, who then proceeded to brush him off and give him a sharp slap to his cheek. 

“Oi!”� Higgs snapped. 

Goyle poked him in the chest, hard, and murmured something that sounded curiously like, “No breathing into a bag at breakfast,”� to which Higgs nodded grudgingly. 

It was Malfoy who spoke first, their unofficial leader and representative taking it upon himself to lead the crew out into the harsh glare of the school corridors. 

“Right, then. Shall we?”� He gestured at the door in a demure manner, with a small, chap-lipped smirk already in place. 

Blaise gave him a perfunctory nod and proffered his right arm to Pansy who still seemed to tremble slightly, though her face was moulded perfectly for the outside world, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. 

He would have to push down the bile in his throat along with his emotions for a few more hours. Blaise could do it; he could poison the entire effing student body by tainting their pumpkin juice if he had to. It was in this frame of mind that the seventeen year old designee of the Zabini legacy snapped the fastenings on his robe, and tucked his wand austerely into a concealed pocket of his sleeve. 

Pity the fool who crossed him this day.

“Strength in numbers,”� Millicent mumbled shakily from next to Crabbe, though her back was straight and shoulders set. 

Crabbe gave her a weak smile, something rare even amongst his housemates, and gave her a small prod in the side. “We’ll go find that Macmillan bloke later and give him the old how to.”�

That, at least, seemed to cheer her somewhat.

“Nothing like a good thumping midday,”� Goyle grunted, sidling up behind Malfoy in his usual place. 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Strength in numbers,”� he echoed Millicent snappishly. 

“Strength in numbers,”� the rest replied in broken utterances as they left the sanctuary of the dungeons.

\---

Breakfast was going to be an obscene affair and a fantastic assessment of wills, Blaise mused as he strode down the Charms corridor and turned abruptly, leaping to catch a moving staircase before it swung too far out of reach. Vince and Millie were the only stragglers, but just barely, as everyone else had made the stair before it ground into motion.

He let his eyes rove over the portraits as he continued down the steps towards the Great Hall, his expression set like chiselled marble. Some of them murmured commiserations, or blotted hastily at their eyes with handkerchiefs.

For the most part, however, the paintings lining the stairwell looked on silently, watching as the Slytherins passed.

Breakfast would just be starting; ergo the Slytherins’ entrance would not go unnoticed — Draco’s idea, obviously. Why? Who in Hades knew? Blaise had long ago written off Malfoy’s penchant for the dramatic as self-serving and flamboyant. Undoubtedly, Draco’s mannerisms were favoured in an upstanding wizarding aristocracy. It was the one thing Ted had spent seven years scoffing at, he thought miserably, and it had been one of their best shared jokes.

In fact, Blaise wouldn’t be surprised if half the school hadn’t realized he existed until midway through sixth year. That, however, afforded both he and Ted a protection that kept them largely out of the line of fire from their rivals in Gryffindor.

Bristling, Blaise cracked his neck audibly. Hearing the satisfying pop he arranged his features in such a way that could be taken as passive. He could hold it up for a few hours or so, and if he faltered, someone would cover for him. They usually did, if they saw he was desperate. 

Raking one hand through his dark locks, he made a last diagnostic check of his appearance by brushing his fingers across his clothing. His hair was straightened enough to hang past his ears; the back often brushed his shirt collar, but it never got long enough to be obscenely shaggy. Blaise’s mother wouldn’t endure it if her son looked like a pauper.

Everything else about him screamed trademark Zabini, from his arched eyebrows, firm jaw line and trademark Florentine nose — somewhat longish and bubbly at the end, though the size balanced out his other features, inclusive of his full lips and rather girlish eyelashes, which Pansy repeatedly told him she envied him for. 

He thought they made him look like a bit of a pouf, really. 

Of course, it had taken nearly six years for him to develop — being somewhat podgy as a child caused him to be overlooked more times than not. By the time Blaise had turned thirteen, he’d looked like a disproportionate cherubim with a freak growth spurt.

“Still preening yourself, Zabini?”� Millicent called from atop the landing.

As much as he adored the girl, Blaise could not restrain the baleful sneer he shot over his shoulder. 

“You’d do good following my example, Bulstrode,”� he snapped back.

“Shut it, Blaise!”� both Pansy and Draco snarled simultaneously.

Blaise merely grit his teeth. Slytherins under duress always reacted in fantastic form. 

Giving another tug to his robe to assure it fell easily around his frame; Blaise adjusted his tie one last time and straightened his collar.

Millicent had reached him and she hissed into his ear, “Alright, love?”�

“Just keep the Gryffindors out of my way,”� he replied, giving her a bitter smile. 

“The Hufflepuffs?”� she asked, a shrewd smirk flitting across her heavy features momentarily, though it did not reach her eyes. 

“All yours, Mil.”� 

The burly girl cuffed his shoulder, a gesture that would look to anyone else like she’d slugged him. She graced him with the tiniest of nods before picking up her step and passing him with her chin raised. 

The illusion that he looked good would hold for a stretch, and he carried himself as such, even if he felt like three-week old tripe. The thin film of grief would cling to his skin yet, but as long as no one else noticed the fact that he felt filthy with sorrow and regret, all was well.

His self assessment, though — a good blend of two parts narcissism, one pinch cynicism, and three parts complete and utter deceit — made for a well-rounded exterior when dealing with anyone outside of the Snake Pit. It had taken three years of training and grooming, but the illusion was more than passable, providing Blaise would refrain from lapsing into the passionate side of his Italian nature and chuck his porridge bowl across the Great Hall at any offending onlookers. 

Nearing the Entrance Hall, Pansy sidled up next to Draco and favoured Blaise with her best simper. “I do _so_ love fresh scandal, don’t you, Zabini? I can smell it all the way out here.”�

Blaise slowed his pace, letting the group merge ahead of him. Catching the wafting aroma of eggs and bacon, he felt his stomach roll. It forced him to pause mid-stride and swallow — hard. 

“Zabini?”� Draco cast a hard look in his direction just before the doors of the Great Hall. 

“Go on, I’ll catch you up,”� he said, sucking in a deep breath to quell the rising bile in his throat. After another forcefully-taken gulp of air, he shook himself, picked up his stride, and filed into the Hall a few steps behind the group. 

Silence punctured only by fervent whispers and the shuffle of cutlery greeted the Slytherins upon entry, the house flags had been replaced by black curtains bearing no emblem, and overhead, the sky remained the purpled-grey of a hazy dawn.

Many of the students looked up as he passed them, Blaise noted, but his gaze was fixed on the empty end of his house table. He wouldn’t bear the distraction of forced condolences, not yet. He wouldn’t suffer the stares and curious mutterings of these vultures. Heads would roll before that. 

Reasserting himself, he set his jaw and swept to his place among the seventh years of his house. 

For a moment, he merely stared at the empty spot on the mahogany bench next to him, before averting his gaze and focusing on the empty dining ware. He clenched his jaw shut firmly, an unfamiliar prickling tugging at the corners of his eyes. Draco slid over to occupy the empty seat and poked him, roughly but discreetly, on his thigh below the table. 

Blaise merely shot him a begrudging glance and reached for the coffee.

At the High Table, Dumbledore was standing, preparing to deliver the news, as if the pecking order hadn’t already heard. 

_“A Death Eater was dead, slashed up his arm real fine — right through the Mark, did you know?”�_ he thought bitterly.

Blaise hefted the decanter, and poured himself a cup of the black brew, managing only to slop a spoonful over the side. He hissed as it hit his wrist, and dropped the blasted pot back to the table.

Glancing down the row of students, he caught the hardened gaze of Samuel Nott as he reached for his napkin to dab at his newly acquired burn. Samuel looked on impassively for a moment, before turning his attention back to his plate and continuing to brutalize his breakfast. 

The Fourth-year’s countenance appeared oddly blank, though the look in his light eyes betrayed him. Sam had made no query the night before as to how or why Ted had killed himself; he’d merely nodded and retired to his dormitory with that ugly, stony look in place.

Blaise could have spat his disgust, it was so palpable. As such, he found he was twisting his napkin hard enough to turn his fingers white from cutting off the circulation.

At the head table, Dumbledore was clearing his throat, only to be broken off by a choked sob, as a small, ashen-face second year leaped up from the Ravenclaw table and ran the length of the room, throwing herself bodily into Blaise’s arms. The best he could do was shut his eyes and wrap Edsel Nott in his embrace as her noisy crying sliced through the silent hall. 

“Shhh, Eddie. Hush now,”� he whispered, stroking her long hair and rocking her on his lap. “It’ll be ok, I promise.”� The words were lost on the twelve year old, however, as she continued to sob into the crook of his neck. 

He chanced a shocked glance around the Hall, noting dually that, not only was the entire student body gaping at this spectacle, but one face in particular stood apart from the rest of the crowd. The Head Girl, a Gryffindor and muggle-born witch, was looking at him with an expression that could only be described as pity; unshed tears sparkling in her doe eyes, and her mouth tugged down at the corners in a small frown. 

Incensed, Blaise clutched the shivering Ravenclaw to his chest as if to shield her from their collective, unscrupulous stare.

Granger’s expression was worse than the combined snivelling and whispers of the entire school. In that one flicker of emotion in her eyes, she’d marked the Slytherin as a human capable of compassion, and it would not do at all to be branded as such. Not now, not in the days to come. Not ever, if he had any say in the matter. 

In one swift motion, he lifted himself off his seat, Edsel in arms, and strode away from the table, carrying her from the Hall. 

Her choked wails echoed through the Entrance Hall as Blaise carried her the length of the foyer, down the school steps, and into the crisp air outside. He didn’t look back to see if anyone followed. Rather, with the top of Ed’s head tucked beneath his chin, he bore the light bundle of a child all the way to the lake before placing her on the grass and wrapping his school robes around them both to shield them from the early autumn chill. 

As her sobs gave way to sniffles, the pale, hazel eyes that were so much like her older brother’s turned on him, looking for reassurance. He found he couldn’t meet her stare; he had no words of comfort for the small girl, especially when he had none for himself.

“Y-you haven’t c-cried yet?”� she asked tremulously.

Staring towards the dark trees of the Forbidden Forest, he shook his head in response, his throat clenching involuntarily. A light mist was forming over the lake and was beginning to spread towards the bank on which they sat. 

“You will, w-won’t you?”� 

He sighed; his gaze remaining trained on the line of old sycamores ahead of them. The sun was barely peeking over the treetops in the east, casting the sky in a light violet-pink hue. 

“It’s not healthy if you don’t, you know.”� 

He glanced at her, not a trace of jest on her wan features. 

“I know, Ed. I will.”�

Edsel rubbed at her lightly freckled cheeks, wiping away the last traces of tears. It wasn’t such an odd characteristic of the young Ravenclaw to grow steely so quickly. Many of the Ravenclaws Blaise knew were sops, but things tended to be slightly different when the rest of your family came from Slytherin. 

“Blaise, will you be like my eldest brother now that Ted’s gone?”�

He stiffened slightly, remembering the cold look on Samuel’s face in the early hours of the morning. “You have an older brother, still, Edsel.”�

Her eyes narrowed, and she pulled away from him slightly, measuring him with a look that would make Parkinson jealous of her predatory features. Edsel was shrewd, no doubt. 

Blaise sighed again, “I’ll be here for you always, Eddie.”�

Her features softened, though she whispered mournfully, “Samuel should have died.”� 

“Ed, don’t say that.”� Blaise squeezed his eyes shut, effectively blocking out his horror. “You don’t mean it —”�

She sniffed. “He’ll never be half the person Teddy was. He’s just like my father — murderers, the lot of them. Father made him take the Mark, Blaise. If mum was alive, she could have stopped it.”� Her glare was filled with resentment as the tears began to run freely again. 

“Edsel —”� 

“Samuel said it was his duty as a pureblood,”� she spat. “It was an honour to my family name that he should be selected by You-Know-Who. Teddy hadn’t the choice! They took him away in the middle of the night while we slept!”� 

She clawed at Blaise’s robes as her voice rose in the early morning quiet. “When he came back,”� she hissed, “he said he was already dead. When he came back, Samuel said he was a disgrace to the wizarding race. He said Teddy was a fool, a blood-traitor! Samuel said he was ashamed to be his brother because his _brother_ didn’t want the ‘honour’ of You-Know-Who bestowed upon him!”� 

Blaise merely stared, his pulse quickening as Edsel Nott twisted her small, pale fists into the fabric of his school robes and seethed at him, trembling. “Samuel is no brother of mine! Not when he doesn’t give a damn that Teddy’s killed himself because he wouldn’t support ‘the cause.’”�

With that, Edsel Nott pushed away from him, choking on the cold breeze, and tore backwards to tumble into the dewy grass.

“He’s not coming back and it’s their fault!”� She stood shakily and dashed forwards to tower over him. “I want him back!”� she sobbed, and balled her fists uselessly at her sides. 

“Edsel —”� Blaise reached forwards slowly, trying again to gather her in his arms. Edsel Nott, tears tumbling freely down her cheeks and into her collar, gasped as Blaise’s fingers brushed her sleeves.

The moment slowed as Blaise stretched for her with weak limbs. Edsel merely staggered backwards and out of reach.

“I want him _back_!”� she shrieked, and then she was gone; her footfalls muffled by the wet grass as she spun around and tore back to the school.

Blaise dropped his arms, defeated, as once again he found himself sitting alone with a bubbling heat pressing outwards from his chest. He swallowed thickly once, twice, and turned his gaze back to the tall trees on the opposite side of the lake. Stilling himself momentarily, he forced his throat to work and opened his mouth to take a ragged lungful of the cool morning air.

In the distance, a little black blob of robes disappeared through the large stone arch of the courtyard, and Edsel was entirely out of sight.

It was true, then, he thought to himself.

Blaise shut his eyes tight, and tried to sooth the rushing sound in his ears. Edsel may not have expressed herself fully, but Blaise knew damn well what she meant. 

Samuel had grown into the footsteps of Nott Senior, where Ted had not. Sam would have taken the Mark gladly and cowered dutifully when commanded; a scrap of power, a dab of fame was all it took to persuade him. He was barely fourteen years old.

And Ted? Blaise chuckled bitterly, coughing as his eyes prickled to siphon off the rawness of the sound. Ted had chosen to take his own life instead of succumbing to servitude under the Dark Lord. Ted had chosen the path of the righteously unaffected, before he could be turned into a monster himself. 

“Ted, you are an absolute —”� Blaise laughed again, a little more hysterically.

Samuel found shame in his brother’s sacrifice; Blaise could feel it — as hot and soiled as the angry throb in his veins.

“Idiot,”� he breathed, and pinched the bridge of his nose as a tremor began in his jaw.

How in Hades could he protect someone who wanted to wilfully place their neck on the chopping block?

Blaise was startled out of his mental battle as a loud flapping and the crackling of branches punctuated the still backdrop. Out of the treetops, a large, dark, skeletal creature soared high into the air above the forest. Its black, membrane-filmy wings spread wide, Blaise could just make out the emaciated body of a winged horse before it snapped its maw, and dove back into the foliage. 

A Thestral. 

He shuddered involuntarily and shifted his weight to stand, unable to tear his eyes away from the gently swaying branches. Never in his life would he have thought the beast to look so terrifying. 

Nott had told him two years before; it was the creature’s eyes that had scared him the most. They were, Ted had said, like two white cataract-covered orbs; like flying death. Those eyes he could see even at this distance. A ripple of unease stirred in his belly, and Blaise began pacing backwards; unwilling to turn from the forest just in case the beast would rise again and spot him on the empty lawn. Doubtless, he’d appear a juicy Aegean-flavoured appetizer. 

Blaise didn’t have the chance to see the person standing a mere few feet behind him before he turned sharply and collided with them, knocking them both onto the frosted grass. 

“Ouf!”�

“Ouch!”�

For a moment, Blaise stared dumbly at a red and black-spotted ladybug as it crawled up a blade of grass — bare inches from his nose — before he realized he was sprawled on top of the rather small, somewhat delicate body of a girl, whose chest was heaving with the effort of having a hundred and eighty pound Slytherin sprawled over her.

“Damnit, Zabini. Get _off_ me.”� She strained beneath him. 

Propping himself up, he took in the bushy mane of brown fanned out against the dewy grass as Hermione Granger struggled against him, attempting to heave him to the side with no avail. 

“Granger, what exactly did you think you were doing, creeping up on me like that?”� he shot, rolling off the struggling girl and tugging his now rumpled tangle of robes from beneath her. 

She huffed and sat up, trying to compose herself. Her lips had practically disappeared into the thin firm line that defined her mouth; a very pissed off mouth at that. Under any other circumstances, Blaise would have laughed hysterically at the impropriety of smacking headlong into the Head Girl and trapping her squirming limbs below him. It was a pity he found himself with very little humour at this early hour, and was not at all shocked to feel the anger bubble up again.

She stood, brushing at her dew-covered posterior, and glared down at him. “I was looking for Edsel Nott. Seeing as how you took the liberty of dragging a second-year out of the castle before breakfast was even over, I decided to come and see if she was alright.”�

Blaise snorted derisively, hauling himself to his feet. “Edsel Nott is more than capable of looking after herself, _Granger_.”� He couldn’t help it if it sounded like he spat the last word. Really, who the hell was she to come tottering along after everyone? “In fact, I daresay she’s more independent than two-thirds of the student body.”�

“Pardon me, Zabini, but looking after the younger students happens to fall under my prerogative.”�

Gritting his teeth, Blaise stretched himself to full height and towered above the meddlesome Gryffindor. “She’s not _just_ some younger student. Of course, if the entirety of Gryffindor house could extricate their heads from their arses they’d realize the rest of the school isn’t filed under statistical assessments.”�

At that, Granger puffed indignantly. Bringing herself up to a lofty five-foot four, a full head shorter than him, causing her to crane her neck as she strode towards him and jabbed a finger at his chest, the girl practically snarled, “How dare you be so presumptuous? Five points from Slytherin, Zabini.”�

He scoffed, “Don’t let the power get to your head now, little lion.”�

“Then let’s make it another five,”� she fumed, teeth bared, “for being a self-important and unsympathetic bastard.”�

Blaise rolled his eyes skyward, the warm golden glow of the sun’s rays beginning to trickle over the lake. The patch of trees where the Thestral vanished fluttered menacingly, and he stiffened before staring down his nose at the bushy-haired mongrel before him. 

“Where’s Edsel?”� she demanded.

“Back at the school, of course. Evidently she has a better sense of timing than I do. It appears one of us has overstayed our welcome,”� he bit back.

She gaped at him soundlessly for a moment, so Blaise barrelled onwards — his temper getting the best of him. 

“While you’re at it, Granger, why don’t you bestow Nott a few points?”�

“What?”� She faltered, cinnamon eyes regarding him cautiously. “Why?”�

“For kindly disposing of himself — one less Death Eater for you and your friends to deal with at this school.”� He sneered and draped his height over the petite witch. “Obviously, if your sense of perception was as keen as everyone says it is, you wouldn’t be fool enough to run around after me the morning after my best friend’s slaughtered himself, and for your absurd cause, no less.”�

She looked as if she were about to slap him. It was then that he noticed the wand gripped at her side, and her knuckles whitened at the peaks. Despite her outwards appearance, her eyes betrayed her, softening somewhat around the corners. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,”� she replied stiffly.

Blaise narrowed his eyes. “Right, you and the rest of the fucking school,”� he spat.

The girl squeezed her eyes shut and appeared to be counting to ten. Blaise took the opportunity to turn from her and stride back towards the lake. Hands clasped behind his back, he stared forwards, unblinking, and waited for the peace to be restored as the muggle-born departed. 

Hearing the slight shuffling of leather Mary Jane’s against the grass, Blaise found she still intended to pester his weary heart by continuing this dreadful conversation at such an ungodly hour of the morning, after having remained awake for no less than twenty six hours. 

It was almost as if he could hear the tight bindings on his resolve snapping, one at a time.

“Zabini, I didn’t mean —”�

“Leave it, Granger,”� he replied brusquely. Hearing the slight crack to his words he winced inwardly, though his appearance remained passive. “I _detest_ false sympathies. Moreover, I certainly don’t need any of that from the likes of _you_.”�

“It wasn’t a —”�

“Of course not.”� He shrugged and shook a lock of hair out of his eyes. Why wouldn’t she just go away? “Draco’s told me of your uncultivated finesse. I wouldn’t expect any better of you.”�

She bristled. Out of the corner of his eye, Blaise noticed her shoulders heave slightly. The little bint was getting riled up again; he smirked and attempted to cover it with a cough into his fist. 

“Zabini, I’m trying to apologize for Merlin’s sake!”� she huffed and attempted to swing him around by his robe sleeve to face her. Due to their great variation in height and composition, however, the most she managed to do was drag herself around to his front when he attempted to shake her off. It was at that precise moment that the foliage beyond the glinting sun shook violently, and the Thestral reappeared above the treetops. 

Hearing the rustling, Granger swung round, and to Blaise, the girl seemed to turn boneless. It was the one miscalculation at the height of his sleep deprivation that would change the course of his life forever, though at the time, he did the most brazenly chivalrous thing he could think of… even if the little twit didn’t deserve it.

Seeing the skeletal horse rear its dragon-like head in their direction, its monstrous wings spread wide, the beast was practically upon them when Blaise wrapped an arm around Grangers neck and pulled her to the ground. He threw himself bodily over her to shield her from the creature. Granger, still clutching at his sleeve, fell beneath him with a squawk of protest. 

The muted rip of fabric could be heard across the lawn simultaneously as the winged horse’s hooves pounded against the cold ground. 

Breathing harshly into Granger’s tangle of wild hair, he could hear its steady hoof falls as the Thestral advanced on them. From below him, Granger cleared her throat. 

“Zabini. What _exactly_ do you think you’re doing?”� 

She sounded absurdly calm given the fact that their lives were on the line. Furthermore, it was then that Blaise realized he’d shucked the obnoxious bint to the ground to protect her. Clearly, he’d lost it. Clearly, he tried to ration with himself, he’d seen enough bloodshed for one day.

“Shut it!”� he hissed. “If we don’t move or make any noise perhaps it’ll go away and leave us alive.”� 

She made a muffled noise that sounded oddly like a giggle, and then promptly shut up.

“Oh.”�

“What?”� he rasped into her hair, even with his head buried in the folds of black cloth he could hear the thing — it was sniffing at his ankles. He shuddered and whispered a quiet prayer to the Gods of old. _Vesta, Diana, Ceres, Juno, Mars, Apollo._ His heart pounding, the crackle of adrenaline fused magic was thick on his tongue.

“You can see it too, then,”� was her hushed reply. 

Without thinking, Blaise shot up, startled.

“What?!”� he nearly shouted. 

Behind him, the Thestral whinnied and huffed.

Rolling over into a seated position, Blaise stared at the black beast as it pawed at the ground and took a tentative step towards him. Granger merely dusted herself off and regarded the exchange between beast and boy with a quirked eyebrow.

“What’s it want?”� Blaise hissed, not taking his eyes off the creature. One chomp from the thing’s stretched and toothy maw and it’d take off his leg, surely. He quite liked his appendages where they were, thanks very much. 

Beside him, Granger tutted and shook her head.

“It’s a domesticated thestral, Zabini. Hagrid tamed the herd years ago. If you’d paid attention in fifth-year Care of Magical Creatures you’d know that.”� 

She was watching the beast as it lowered its long head and sniffed at his shoes again with a mingling of melancholy and yearning. Tentatively, with one cataract-covered eye peering at the Slytherin, the thestral licked the bottom of his shoe and drew back as if anticipating a blow to its emaciated skull.

Glancing quickly at Granger and not entirely willing to take his eyes off the thing, he hissed out of the corner of his mouth, “Fantastic. But, what — does — it — want?”�

When she didn’t answer, Blaise turned his head, albeit quickly, to see her eyes downcast. The girl was worrying her lip fiercely as if she knew something, but didn’t want to breathe life into the thought by voicing it out loud. 

“Granger!”� he nearly whined.

Finally, she replied in a gentle murmur that was very uncharacteristic of the Gryffindor, “They’re attracted to the smell of blood.”�

Blaise’s breath caught; the events of the past evening crashing down around him. He’d stood in Ted’s blood — on the carpet literally soaked through by the carrier of Ted’s magic. They’d be decontaminating the walls and floors now to rid the dorms of the residual energy, and yet, some still clung to him. He was dragging a bit around on the soles of his shoes. 

Horrified, he snapped his foot back from the thestral, causing it to cast a mournful look in his direction out of its horrible white eyes, before trotting around and taking flight back towards the forest.

The Slytherin could do nothing other than take in several breaths harshly, and squeeze his eyes shut. He was going to lose it, he knew it — he was about to snap and let the rest of the world suffer for it. The thoughts plagued him until he heard the soft intake of breath to his left and remembered he was still seated next to the Head Girl.

He turned to look at her, a wild glint in his eyes. He felt feral; he suffered the insane desire to run rampaging across the grounds and chuck himself into the icy depths of the lake in hopes of stilling his racing heart. 

All thoughts of maniacal possession were torn from him as he realized that in her hands were the black and green-lined fabric of his robes, and a patch of white oxford shirt. She was staring at the bare flesh of his arm.

“Granger?”� 

Amazingly, his voice didn’t break. Still, she didn’t lift her gaze.

“Granger!”� He snapped the fingers of his right hand in front of her face. Shaking herself, her eyes locked on his right sleeve and she dove for him, ripping back his robes and popping the button on his cuff. Clutching his right arm in a small, but surprisingly firm grip, she snatched at his left arm and effectively threw him off balance. Clutching both of his limbs, she inspected the olive skin on both the outside and soft undersides of his arms. Finding no tracing of the brand left on so many of his former housemates, Granger’s brown eyes raised to meet his, her brow furrowed.

“But you’re of age…”� she said softly. “I thought… V-Voldemort…”�

Clenching his jaw shut at the obvious invasiveness of her actions, he hissed only four words at her through gritted teeth before the Gryffindor leapt up to run back towards the school; shock written starkly across her features. 

“And neither was he.”�


	4. Canto III: Of Dust, Dragonhide and Dreamscapes

**Slytherin Solidarity**  
 **Canto III — Of Dust, Dragonhide and Dreamscapes**  
 **Summary:** The secrets kept by the dead cannot be measured but for the moments that we remember when they lived. In a dream, that time can stretch — the message echoing across the great expanse between two realms. It is only upon waking that Blaise knows, in part and only just, that there is more to the life and death of Ted Nott than he thinks.  
 **Pairings:** Blaise/Hermione  
 **Category:** Darkfic/drama/romance  
 **Rating:** R   
**Disclaimer:** A non-profit adoration of J.K. Rowling’s characters

**Author’s Notes:** With many thanks to my beta, Paia, I am happy (and eternally relieved) to say that this chapter was revised, tweaked and banged about sufficiently in December 2005.

  
**\---**   
**Slytherin Solidarity**   
**Canto III — Of Dust, Dragonhide and Dreamscapes ---**   


Complete exhaustion has a strange way of seeping into the limbs. The synchronicity normally provided in waking life seems to feint at times; it pauses and restarts itself, affixing the sluggishness to both mind and body. What’s worse, Blaise realized as he stalked the deserted halls of Hogwarts in the waning afternoon sunlight, is that it causes the images passing before the eyes to flicker and falter, producing strange superimpositions on the ancient stones and tapestries.

One couldn’t be sure of the stretching shadows. Like long fingers they moved sinuous and slow between the eaves and into the crevices, into the nooks, and broken by the slow drag of his feet where his legs interrupted their journey from the ceiling-length windows lining the halls.

His eyes, shot through with red and dry from sleeplessness, scoured his surroundings without taking much of it in. The Slytherin realized he’d merely drawn himself away from the inevitable; avoiding what had come to pass. The longer he’d wander, the less time he’d need to spend in the vicinity of the Slytherin commons, and the less time he’d spend contemplating the images that stubbornly replayed themselves in his mind. At that moment, with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his school robes and his gaze combing the Gothic architecture that surrounded him, he couldn’t shake the numbness that was percolating in his bones. 

Distraction would be most welcome, he thought tiredly. It would, he reasoned, keep him company with his battered thoughts. Idly, he fingered the edge of the journal tucked away safely in the pocket of his robes. It would be tempting to scrawl out something he could later hold at an arm’s length and analyse. However, he doubted he’d manage anything more than a few broken lines that would seem strained and empty at this point. 

The journal would wait for him, as it always did. 

The vaulted ceilings sprawled twenty feet overhead, an architectural wonder, really — that such a curvaceous and beautiful structure could support the tons of mortar and sandstone used to build the old school. Muggle ingeniousness at its height — in later years the Gothic style had spurred a revolution of designers into countless revivals, fashioning furnishings, churches and ornament around the fashion, he’d learned through Muggle Studies. 

He’d dropped the class after fifth year, unfortunately. Draco had said studying a lower life form was nearly as drab as looking at the archaic remnants of odd and extinct magical fungi. Then again, Draco never quite captured the concept that regardless of what he’d been led to believe as a child, wizards and muggles have, and always would be, linked intrinsically — whether the pureblood elite liked it or not. The tapestries and portraits of these hallowed halls spoke exactly that in hushed murmurs. 

His head was hurting again. The lack of a proper breakfast and luncheon, combined with the absence of a night’s rest were beginning to creep up on him, so when a disembodied, floating silver form drifted through the west wall and aligned itself with Blaise’s slow stride, he didn’t think much of it. Ghosts were common enough at Hogwarts; there were very few who were entirely unsociable, in any case. 

The fact that Blaise had been periodically seeing things that weren’t actually there out of the corner of his eye may have attributed to his slow response when the phantom raised its arm, placing a translucent hand on his shoulder and sending an icy chill through his flesh. He glanced around quickly, too quick in fact, for the sight that greeted him was not something he expected in the slightest. The face of the spirit, lightly dappled with silver freckles, shining pale eyes, turnip nose and square jaw were enough to send him staggering backwards in fright.

Blaise bowed beneath the cold touch, ducking and losing his balance entirely, he crumpled against the West wall with a thud. His tailbone seared painfully as his bottom made contact with the floor, and with a yelp, Blaise slid sideways knocking into the armour’s legs. The contraption rattled unsteadily a moment, before arching downwards and clattering in pieces on top of him. 

Struggling to relieve himself of the wreckage and cursing loudly, Blaise looked up again to find the staring, floating figure gazing at him interestedly, his head tilted demurely to the side, and floating patiently a foot above the ground.

The spirit’s smile had morphed into a small frown, the nose was longer, the limbs stockier — in fact, it wasn’t the same ghost he’d seen but two moments ago. 

In the place of small, silver freckles, was the light scattering of tiny, hoary drops of blood. The tunic itself was splattered heavily in shining gore; the clothing both ancient and resplendent. The Bloody Baron, Slytherin’s ghost, floated above him in austere silence, before tipping his wide-brimmed hat with a small bow, and then drifted through the east wall without a backwards glance.

“Barking,”� Blaise muttered to the empty corridor. 

It couldn’t have been, it was impossible; his very eyes had just proved it otherwise… But he could have sworn that it had been Ted in the Baron’s place only moments before. 

Shaking himself roughly, Blaise kicked off the remaining pieces of the fallen armour and stood, brushing himself off. Numbly, he looked at the unmarked patch of wall where the ghost had passed through, and decided with resignation that it was about time he packed away some food. Gods forbid he completely cracked. They’d have to levitate him to the Hospital Wing, and who knew what his mother would do to him if she caught word of _that_.

Blaise shoved both fists into his pockets — his left knuckle grazing the soft cover of his journal, and began the slow march down the corridor to the stairwell with slow and deliberate steps.

Rounding the corner and preparing to descend four floors to the kitchens, the disembodied voices of three distinguishable Gryffindors carried to the spot where Blaise was passing. He paused, cocking his head to the side, and slunk up to a bare spot between two portraits on the wall. 

It sounded as if a heated debate were carrying on between Weasley and Granger. Obviously, there was nothing new there — the two sods had a row practically every other day. 

“…But Hermione!”�

“No ‘buts’, Ronald, I know what I saw,”� she snapped.

“Well maybe you should go see Madam Pomfrey and have her check your vision. It’s impossible!”�

“What is?”� she fumed, “The possibility that perhaps there are more things going on in this school that we know about? It’s not like any of us are chummy with them.”�

Blaise cocked an eyebrow and leaned against the wall.

The portrait hanging to his left tutted irritably, and muttered, “It isn’t _polite_ to eavesdrop.”�

Blaise rolled his eyes at the painting; gesturing for the hag depicted to continue with her knitting — or at least, the semblance of the hand gesture was close enough. For all he cared, the portrait could jab one its needles in a major artery and Blaise wouldn’t have blinked twice.

This little spat between two Gryffindorks could prove to be far more interesting. Never in his six years at the school had he heard a member of a different house sticking up for one of his own. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure the corridor was deserted, he slid closer to the juncture where both corridors met, and relaxed against the wall — unmindful of the fact that his shoulder now rested against the portrait of the knitting hag. The portrait’s occupant let out an undignified snarl, and took off into a neighbour’s frame. Blaise repressed a snigger, and settled against the vacated artwork to enjoy the show. 

“So you’re defending him, then? Is that it?”� The Weasley’s voice rose in volume slightly. 

She blustered, “No! I just think it’s best to analyze the situation the best we can.”�

“Hermione! What’s there to analyse?”� Ron stamped his foot.

Blaise rolled his eyes. The damned child was going to draw this tirade out, undoubtedly. 

“It’s all an illusion! He’s just trying to get you to see things his way so he can suss you into some warped mind game. All Slytherins are Death Eaters! They’re bred for it — wetting themselves over who they can please more — their parents or You-Know-Who.”�

“Ron, really —”� Granger sighed wearily. 

“They’re no good, the lot of them,”� Weasley insisted peevishly. “Especially this Zabini prat — says practically nothing at all for six years, goes completely unnoticed, and then all of a sudden he’s in the limelight because another one of _them_ croaked. The entire _school_ knows what happened, Hermione.”�

Blaise bristled, stiffening. 

A third person sighed. _Potter_. Blaise grimaced. 

“Guys, perhaps this isn’t the best place to carry on this discussion. Anyone could walk by.”�

Weasley scoffed. “Right Harry, you’re just trying to delay the inevitable.”� He paused, “Or maybe they’ve gotten to you too…”�

“Ron, stop it!”� Granger snapped. “Look, I saw both of Zabini’s arms and they were perfectly clear of any markings. Furthermore, he —”� She quieted abruptly. 

“What? He what?!”� Weasley was practically yelling.

“Ron shut up!”� Potter hissed. 

“He’s of age,”� Granger muttered. “It doesn’t make any sense.”�

“Let go of me, Harry!”� Weasley lowered his voice menacingly. “How do you know that? What did he do to you ‘Mione?”�

“Nothing, Ron, he just —”�

“If he laid as much as a stinking, slimy finger on you —”�

“Ron, just stop it! All I’m saying is that we don’t know everything about them!”� Granger bit back.

Well, that last statement wasn’t entirely truthful — if you counted the fact that he’d probably gotten more action lying on top of the girl fully clothed than Weasley had seen in the last seven years. Blaise grinned at the thought, slimy indeed. 

As much as he disliked the witch, Blaise had to hand it to her; she was doing a right good job of covering her own arse right about then, even if she did sound partly barmy. Since when did Granger stick up for his sort?

“I don’t believe a word of it,”� Weasley hissed. “When I find out what that smarmy bastard’s up to —”�

“Ron, I think someone’s coming,”� Potter said quickly, a nervous hitch in his breathing. 

Granger continued, ignoring Potter’s warning. “You didn’t see his face Ron! The look in his eyes when he said…”� She faltered. “It was awful.”� 

Blaise heard her suck in a breath, if he didn’t know better he’d say the little chit was about to bawl, and over him no less. This day couldn’t possibly get any stranger.

“He just wants your sympathy, ‘Mione — a nice shoulder to cry on, now that his Death Eater buddy’s rotting. I bet it was a set up.”� There was a sound of a fist smacking an open palm; Blaise held his breath, his stomach plummeting as he awaited the next words to fall from the idiot’s mouth. 

Slowly, Blaise reached into his robe sleeve and unlatched the holster on his wand, lifting back the silver catch and extracting the delicate rowan instrument. 

Weasley continued, “I bet his own housemates killed him to set an example.”�

That instant, as Blaise flung himself around the corner, there was a sizzle and a loud smack as a body hit the ground. At the opposite end of the corridor, Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, were advancing on the party of three rapidly, wands drawn and robes flapping behind them. Potter leapt back and was attempting to untangle his wand from the waistband of his pants; and Granger was staring with her mouth agape at her fallen friend, entirely unmindful of Blaise as he strode over to the scene.

In an instant, Draco shoved Granger from his path, and descended on the downed Gryffindor. With an undignified snarl, he thrust the tip of his wand into the taller boy’s neck, wrapping a fist into the front of his robes to draw Weasley’s face up to meet his.

“Say it again,”� he hissed through clenched teeth. “Please, Weasley, do me this honour. I’d like nothing more to try out some experimental curses on your miserable hide.”� 

Draco’s face, though partially concealed by a fan of platinum blond hair, was pinched and blotchy scarlet in places. From where Blaise stood, a mere three feet away from Weasley’s sprawled form, he noted the large vein thrumming in Draco’s neck. Definitely not a good sign. 

Blaise threw a glance at Goyle; the larger boy blinked, startled by Blaise sudden appearance, and threw one meaty arm out to intercept Potter. Blaise nodded grimly, shifting out of Draco’s direct line of fire should a curse be thrown errantly, and Goyle shoved Potter into the wall without further hesitation.

Crabbe looked towards Granger, standing with her back to the Italian, but Blaise shook his head and reached out for her hand. He didn’t have the opportunity to grasp at her wrist, however, because as Draco released the gangly wizard and stepped back a pace to assume a duelling stance, Granger shoved Malfoy roughly out of the way and leapt on Weasley, herself.

The strangled sob the Head Girl emitted as she struggled to pull him up to his feet by the front of his robes was nothing short of unbelievable. For a moment, Blaise thought he’d misheard a grunt or some sign of effort in pulling the wizard to his feet. It was only when he noticed the tear coursing down Granger’s cheek that he knew something was a little off. His suspicions were confirmed, however, when she drew back her hand a smacked Weasley across the face.

Draco gaped. Potter stopped struggling against Goyle, and Greg actually released him, his deep-set eyes latching onto the spectacle before him. Crabbe stared after the Gryffindor’s retreating back as she turned heel and tore down the length of the fourth floor corridor and out of sight. Blaise blinked, shoving Weasley out of his way and into Potter, and snatched Draco by the elbow, heaving him down the corridor after Granger. 

It was a moment before Malfoy returned to his senses and struggled free of Blaise’s grasp. 

“Zabini, what the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing? I had a perfect shot at him!”� 

Malfoy shoved him furiously, his stride unbroken as they swept past the library and pressed down the hall to the stairwell. Blaise merely scowled and pressed onwards.

Draco gesticulated irritably over his shoulder at the spot where Weasley and Potter stood staring dumbly at each other, Ron rubbing his reddened cheek. He swore again, frustrated.

“Blaise!”� Draco shouted. “Stop and bloody listen to me! How often does that happen? How often do we get a perfect excuse?”�

Blaise however, had other things in mind as he swept down towards the staircase with his three housemates at his heels, Draco spluttering angrily.

“Damnit, Zabini where are you going?”�

“To find Granger,”� he said levelly, gripping his wand tightly in a white-knuckled fist.

“The hell for?”� Draco’s voice echoed off the deserted stairwell, as the staircase they were descending rasped against its fixtures and began to swing in a wide arc to reposition itself. Pausing, shoulders squared, Blaise spun around to face him. 

“To thank her for such a creative display of house loyalty, what did you think Draco?”� he snapped. 

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. 

Behind him, Crabbe and Goyle were looking between the two wizards and shuffling awkwardly, uncertain of whom they were to side with should the pair split up. 

“You had something to do with this, didn’t you?”� Draco replied with a calculated air. 

Blaise turned away and marched off the last stair, not wanting his housemates to see him contemplating his response. 

On one hand, Granger had just slapped the daylights out of someone who was supposedly her best friend, something Blaise would ordinarily laugh hysterically at for hours afterwards. On the other, she’d reacted violently for a member of a rival house who had enough slated against him even in death to cause a stir in the Ministry — even if the allegations were unfounded. What was worse is that she’d reacted out of sympathy for him. She’d said so herself. 

The display at breakfast had been quite enough, Blaise asserted. To think that she’d seen something in his face when they’d sat by the lake was enough to have him reeling. He was nothing but guilty as charged.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,”� he retorted, and strode into the entrance hall. Malfoy paused at the landing, several stairs up. Crabbe and Goyle remained steadfastly behind him, though the pair shared a glance that Blaise forced himself not to scowl at.

“Zabini you owe no gratitude towards that filthy mudblood.”� Draco’s words echoed in the large stairwell. Blaise, however, spun on his heel, paying this last quip no heed and continued walking, leaving his friends behind him. 

Draco continued to holler after him, “It’s not safe, Zabini, mixing with their kind! You can’t let your guard down around them!”�

Incensed, he only realized when he’d reached the first floor that he had no idea which way Granger had gone. Draco’s complaints had distracted him thoroughly, and he now found himself alone in the deserted foyer. All the better, he needed to think, clear his head —

“Ah, Mr. Zabini!”� 

Blaise stiffened and turned around slowly. 

“Just the man I’ve been looking for.”� 

Dumbledore stood before the stairs leading down to the kitchens. 

“Sir,”� he said. So much for solace, Blaise thought as he inclined his head slightly towards the Headmaster. Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles, as he gestured in the direction of the kitchens. 

“I was just on my way for a mid-afternoon tea; would you care to join me? Perhaps an informal atmosphere and a bit of pudding would still your wanderings for a short time.”�

Blaise’s stomach rumbled in response. 

Bugger it, he’d find Granger later. He’d deal with Draco later as well, along with Edsel and Samuel and every other bloody thing that could _possibly_ come to pass on this positively spiffing day.

Right now, Dumbledore’s invitation sounded mighty appealing. The shelter of the kitchens and a sandwich, concluded by a nap in the sanctity of his bed hangings would do him wonders. He obviously wasn’t thinking clearly, he had just seen the face of his recently deceased best friend and he could have sworn he had he just been running after Granger. 

The aged wizard smiled benignly at Blaise’s lack of response, and led the way down the set of steps to the kitchens. Pausing before a large portrait of a bowl of fruit, the Headmaster tickled a fat yellow pear. With a giggle, the fruit morphed into a brass door handle, and Dumbledore opened the portrait, guiding the Slytherin inside. 

Several House-Elves scurried around squeaking and carrying loaded trays of sandwiches, biscuits and tea, while the Headmaster took a seat at what appeared to be a replica of the Hufflepuff table.

The room was cavernous, stretching the length of the Great Hall above. The difference, however, was that the walls were covered in an assortment of cooking utensils, pots, and pans. Arranged similarly to the room above the kitchens, the four house tables stood bare in the middle of the room, later to be filled by the evening’s dinner and sent up through the ceiling. 

Dumbledore gestured for him to take a seat across from him, as a house elf with greying hair tufting from its ears pushed at his legs with a large plate and motioned for him to take a seat. 

“Mr. Zabini,”� Dumbledore began, his tone belaying a graveness that squashed Blaise’s appreciation of the school’s facilities. “Please, have a seat and enjoy a well-deserved snack,”� he said gesturing at the teetering pile of sandwiches. “I daresay the subject matter we will be discussing shortly will leave you bereft of your appetite.”� 

Glancing at the Headmaster, Blaise reached for a ham and cheese creation and took a bite tentatively. His stomach snarling in response, he proceeded to consume no less than eleven quartered sandwiches, intermittently sipping his pumpkin juice. When he was sated, Dumbledore surveyed the Slytherin above his spectacles. Though he tried to conceal his discomfort beneath the Headmaster’s gaze, Blaise had the distinct impression that the wizard knew precisely what had happened over the course of the past thirty six hours.

That was impossible, of course, Blaise rationed, settling his hands atop the table loosely, though he couldn’t shake the sudden discomfort that stole over him.

“Due to recent events,”� The Headmaster began, “I feel it is best to discuss certain things which have come to light with those who were closest to Mr. Nott.”� 

Blaise braced himself.

“Professor Snape informs me that the members of your house are drawing closer together in this time of tragedy. I am aware, Mr. Zabini, of your ties to Mr. Nott and the friendship you shared. I am most sorry for your loss, Blaise.”� Dumbledore’s eyes had lost their glint temporarily; he wore a small frown that caused the wrinkles in his weathered skin to sag into large creases around his mouth and eyes. “I must ask you, however, in the dark times ahead to remain vigilant and to be strong.”�

Blaise struggled to keep his gaze level. 

“Mr. Zabini, as you are no longer a child I must speak frankly with you. While I am Headmaster of this school, you are still under my careful watch. It pains me to say that you will not be forever. I am well aware of the rift being created by the onset of war. Choose wisely Blaise. Guide those who will follow you where you can, and if they do not — never fear that you may learn something that will suit your purposes.”� The light blue twinkle was back. Dumbledore was deliberately dropping a suggestion; the old wizard always knew whenever something particularly ghastly lurked in shadowy corners and beneath unturned stones. What is was exactly, Blaise had no idea.

“I’ll do my best, Sir,”� he replied, swallowing with effort. 

“Good.”� Dumbledore smiled benignly once again. “I trust you will make the right decisions, Blaise; there will be many who look to you for assistance. You are undoubtedly one of the brightest in your year, and I daresay one of the most ambitious. The courage you demonstrated today alone was most commendable to your House’s repute.”�

Blaise could barely stop his eyebrows from shooting up. Never in ten lifetimes did he think he’d hear ‘Slytherin’ synonymous with ‘courageousness’. Perhaps the old codger was going barmy, as Draco had said many times before. The Headmaster merely chuckled in response to Blaise’s strained expression.

“Today, you chose to protect Edsel Nott and remove her from a potentially scarring situation. It was an act of selflessness that is rare among the Slytherins, if I’m not mistaken, and yet you moved to guard her in her mourning. You see, Blaise, the defining lines are never so black and white.”� He paused, “Red and green.”� 

He looked at Blaise meaningfully. “I may have been a Gryffindor once myself, but that does not stop me from valuing all of my students equally — regardless of the colors they wear. Remember that in the days to come.”� Dumbledore stood from his seat and stroked his beard thoughtfully while he moved towards the door. “If there is anything at all that you wish to discuss Blaise, please remember that I will always lend an open ear, free of bias or discrimination.”� 

“Thank you, Sir. I’ll bear it in mind,”� Blaise found himself shocked to admit. If ever there was an ally at Hogwarts, it was the Headmaster, surely. He’d be damned if he would watch any more of his friends fall to the madness wrought by the Dark Lord if he could prevent it. 

Dumbledore was twinkling again. “Get some rest, Mr. Zabini. I daresay you’ll need your strength.”� With that, the Headmaster disappeared through the portrait with the swish of a star-strewn cloak. 

Blaise propped his elbows onto the table and clutched at his hair. The wood grain was beginning to swim before him, the sleeplessness and swirling cocktail of emotions finally beginning to bubble up in his throat. If he kept up face any longer he’d crack. Defeated, Blaise rose from the table, glancing blearily at a house elf that squeaked and began a furious clean-up of Blaise’s dishes. 

There was one good thing about the dungeons, he reckoned, most people steered clear of them long enough during the day to get a few hours undisturbed rest.

\---

_He stood on the topmost spire of the North tower, a warm breeze lifting the folds of his robes. In the distance, the line of sycamore and yew trees swayed gently against a sky that was darkening from blue to indigo, and then to a deep violet and pink where the sun left a slash of waning light on the horizon. Almost everything was at rest in its early evening slumber, though the breeze seemed to carry on it its own mournful message with the swelling hum of the cicadas, and warble of the whippoorwills perched along the castle’s eaves._

_Blinking at the red glare of the setting sun, Blaise sighed and gazed down happily at the Hogwarts he’d known as his home since age eleven. So beautiful, those ever-ending turrets stretching towards the sky in a dance of giants — tumbling upon themselves and reaching heavenwards to the places high enough that could only be grasped by the gods of old._

_“It will all be laid in ruin before the dawn breaks.”�_

_He turned his head slowly towards the watery voice, basking in the waning glow of twilight. Ted Nott stood to his left, his arms folded across his chest with a small smile grazing his thin lips. Blaise knew the expression well, and he grinned. Ted’s ashen hair fell stubbornly into his eyes; they reflected the glint of the sun, making them blaze eerily in the dusk._

_“Ted, you’ve such a morbid sense of humour,”� Blaise chortled, his voice seeming to come from far away, like a distant cloud rolling lazily in the summer sky._

_The stringy boy met his eye then, freckles disappearing beneath the stretch of skin covering his cheeks as he smirked back at him absently._

_“That’s because I’m dead, Blaise,”� he replied, grinning ever more broadly._

_The sun winked out overhead, and Blaise felt himself plummeting down past the turrets, past the ancient masonry and mortar, through the walls, through the floors, and down into the earth. Further still, until he landed with a muted thump on cold ceramic tile._

_Blaise winced as the lights snapped back on, revealing a harshly lit white chamber, stark save for the line of wash basins, a claw-footed bathtub and several concealed toilets in their respective cubicles._

_Ted was seated across from him, his knees bent. Casually, he dangled his arms between his legs, and between his thumb and middle finger, he flicked the black handle of a razor against his palm._

_He eyed Blaise with the same grin that he’d seen atop the tower playing across his features. Lazily, Ted reached up and loosened his tie, unfastening the first two buttons of his starched oxford shirt, and Blaise found that he mirrored his best friend’s actions. Upon glancing down, he noted the olive tinge of his flesh in the severe lighting — he was definitely himself, though he found he couldn’t control the movement of his hands as he unfastened his own shirt._

_In Blaise’s left hand, the carved ebony and ivory handle of his own straight razor glinted brightly in the lavatory’s glare._

_Both boys were opening and closing the blade with a sharp click every few moments._

_“You see, Blaise, the Dark Lord has many means of persuasion.”�_

_Ted lifted the razor, waggling his eyebrows as he waved the blade before his face._

_“None of which are painless.”� Ted smirked; Blaise felt the involuntary twitch in his left cheek._

_With a deft swipe of the blade, Ted popped the button off his sleeve cuff and bunched the fabric back with the tips of his fingers. Blaise glanced down to see that he had done the same on his right arm._

_“The cruciatus, you have to understand, hurts like hell. The pain of the curse echoes in your bones for days — sometimes to the point where you’re nearly crippled for a week afterward.”�_

_Ted angled his arm, revealing the black etchings of a serpent coiled around a grinning skull, its mouth agape._

_“But that’s nothing, mate.”� Ted looked up at him through his fringe and waved the blunted end of the straight razor, much like he was scolding a young child._

_“Voldemort doesn’t give a damn who he hurts as long as he gets what he wants. To him, it doesn’t matter who has to die,”� Ted sneered. “Your baby sisters, your parents, your aunts and uncles.”� Ted gesticulated absently, waving the blade around in awkward circles. “Leverage,”� he added. “He’ll slaughter your pet krup and string it’s entrails across your front porch if it’ll have the effect he’s looking for.”�_

_Ted sat back against the claw-footed bathtub and flicked open the blade again, and surveying the Mark on his arm thoughtfully, he continued his speech._

_“You’ve got to watch out for that power-hungry, murdering sod. You’ve got to take away the temptation for him to do you and your own any more wrong than absolutely necessary.”�_

_Blaise noticed a similar brand across his own forearm, except there was no skull — rather the serpent had coiled upon itself and had formed a continuous circle, the snake swallowing its own tail — an ouroboros._

_Ted glanced up at him again and smiled a half-grin. “You’ve got to look out for your own.”� He waggled his eyebrows and jutted his chin in Blaise’s direction. “I did it for all of you — this.”� He frowned down at his arm as he drew the steel blade across the Dark Mark flippantly, a thin rivulet of blood running down his forearm and pooling into his cupped palm._

_“The bastard threatened to kill you all in front of me if I didn’t play along. I’d be damned before I let him get his filthy cloven hooves on any of you.”� Ted stood, using his elbow to pull himself up the side of the bathtub._

_The cut on his arm left a long smear of red up its side._

_“But that,”� he nodded at Blaise, “is not the point. That is just the means to an ends.”�_

_Ted stalked over to the wall opposite the sinks._

_“And the ends,”� he continued, snapping the blade shut and clamping down on the hilt between his teeth. “Isth wath matthers.”�_

_Blaise found he had risen to his feet as well, but instead of mimicking Ted’s actions, he found he had regained some control over his limbs. He stood stalk still as Ted cupped his hand, patiently waiting as his blood slid in rivulets down his forearm and pooled in his palm._

_“The enh,”� Ted murmured around the butt of the razor, “isth thusth another behinnin.”�_

_He winked over his shoulder, and dipped two fingers into the small pool in his cupped hand. Casually, Ted began tracing large letters over the tile._

_He was mid-way through forming the second ‘R’ in ‘sorry’ when he paused and turned to Blaise, watching him with a calculated air. He pulled the razor from between his teeth, smacked his lips, and said, “It’s going to get effing messy in here real soon, so I don’t expect you to sit through the gory particulars. Just so you know, though, don’t run off and blame yourself after this. It was never your fault. I do need you to remember a few things, however.”�_

_Ted turned back to the wall, hastily completing the last few letters. The blood had begun to overrun his fingers, and with a wince, Ted shook off the excess hastily. It splattered against the tile, mostly, but a fair amount smeared across his trousers, shoes and shirt too._

_“Messy business, this,”� he smirked, sitting down against the bathtub again. The white-walled lavatory began to flicker as he drew the razor down across his forearm sharply, a fresh stream of oxidised blood running down his fingers and pooling on the floor._

_“Blaise?”� Ted looked worried now, his brows furrowing as he brought the blade down again, cutting through Voldemort’s mark. “I haven’t much time left. Truthfully, I thought this’d go on a little longer.”� Ted swallowed with effort, slouching against the tub._

_A thin film of sweat and sprung across his brow. Archly, he cleared his throat and chucked the razor into a corner. It snapped open and ground across the tile before it came to rest against the far wall._

_“Tell my mother, Blaise,”� he said with urgency. Blaise slid down to the floor, keeping himself level with Ted’s rapidly paling face. Beginning to lean sideways, Ted reached out to support himself against the tub, failing and instead leaving several long streaks of scarlet against its sides as he sank backwards._

_The wounds were larger, now. Instead of the small rivulets, his blood was flowing freely from two enormous gashes in his arm. The blood all but covered the Mark._

_“Tell her I love her and that none of this is her fault,”� he insisted. “Go to her grave, and tell her that.”�_

_“Tell her she was the best mother I could ever have been born to,”� he smiled thinly, his eyes fluttering shut although he continued speaking._

_Ted now lay prone on the cold white tile of the lavatory floor, the pool of viscous red spreading around him and beneath his robes._

_“I want you to tell Samuel and Edsel to run; tell them to hide. Edsel will need you, Blaise, and do your best when it comes to Sam. He may need a good thrashing to knock some sense into him.”�_

_Ted looked pained, the room was fading and Blaise was slipping out of consciousness. His eyelids flickered and he clutched at the wall for support, he was sliding down into darkness with his best friend._

_“Keep them safe, Blaise — all of those you love. I’ve done what I can, mate, but —”� Ted reached an arm out and grinned at his best friend weakly._

_“But don’t forget to save yourself.”�_

_Ted shut his eyes for the last time, his breathing slowed, and his arm dropped listlessly against the cold tub._

_Blaise was lost to the velvety depths of darkness._

_Swirling in the deepest recesses of the night, Blaise plummeted. Whispers of dreams past floated by, while further down the spiral he went. Darkness churned around him, letting him sink deeper until he found he could fall no more. He was floating gently, and then his bare toes touched the cool earth; the soft grasses barely kissed by the condensation of the Scottish countryside._

_In the distance, an uncertain sun crept over the treetops in tiny slivers amidst the early morning mist that rolled off the lake. In the distance, an enormous tentacle broke the surface, wavering for a moment, before crashing back to the lake’s depths._

_On the shore, a girl sat hunched over and crying, her arms wrapped around a thick volume of parchment bound in dragonhide. The cover gleamed black with the faint oily sheen of dragon scales — the corners capped and bound by ornate clasps wrought of pewter. On its cover were the burned initials B.D.L.Z._

_It was a familiar tome._

_Pebbles crunching beneath his feet, Blaise moved slowly, stopping only once he stood at her side. Kneeling, he placed a hand on her shoulder._

_She shivered, raising her head to meet his gaze, tears already dry against her face._

_Slowly, the image dimmed; the lake vanished, the lawns of Hogwarts receded, and he stood at the foot of a great Villa. It was the Toscana, North of Florence certainly. It was his home._

_He was alone, save for the bloodied, emaciated body of Ted Nott who stood at his side, his robes drawn back and his arm slashed through._

_He was smiling._

_His thin pink slash of a mouth moved, carefully and languidly forming the words “Follow me.”�_

_Ted closed his eyes and lifted his face to the Tuscan sun, arms spread wide and head thrown back. Mimicking his friend’s actions, the light consumed all things, and Blaise felt his feet lift off the ground._

_\---_

_Blaise._

Blaise grumbled, and rolled over, knocking a pillow off the bed with a soft ‘whump’.

_You great lump, open your eyes._

Blaise mumbled a muffled curse into his bedclothes and drifted amidst the swirl of his dreams.

_Fine then, have it your way._

\---

There was a muffled snap, and a cool mist began to roll over the brocaded green coverlet, collecting near the foot of the bed. Blaise cracked opened an eye sleepily, greeted by a cold wet patch of drool on his pillow, and the black innards of his bed hangings.

Someone was snickering nearby, though the sound was muted. The last time he’d checked, it had been broad daylight. Now, however, everything was bathed in the phosphorescent gleam of the lake at night. 

Incensed by the fact that one of his dorm mates was refusing to shut up their giggling, Blaise rolled onto his back and squinted into the darkness, his lids still heavy with sleep. It was then that he noticed the indentation at the foot of his bed. An indentation that was caused by a seventeen year old boy, clad in charcoal grey uniform trousers, a white oxford shirt and a green and silver tie that had been loosened and was now hanging listlessly about his throat.

Ted sat cross-legged, grinning fiendishly at the Italian wizard, his sleeves rolled up displaying arms that had not yet had the scornful Mark burned into them. A lock of ash-blond hair flopped listlessly into his eyes.

“Nott, the hell are you doing? I’m sleeping!”� 

“Too right, Zabini. Best you get up though, there’s something you’ve got to see.”� 

Ted’s grin was enormous, the slight gap in his two front teeth making him look like a feral version of some large, cantankerous mountain cat who hadn’t seen a proper meal in a week or two.

“Up, Blaise! Before it turns light out.”� 

Ted nodded towards the bed curtains, and Blaise sat up irritably, throwing them aside roughly and padded half-asleep onto the soft green and silver weave of the dormitory’s carpets. Blaise didn’t bother with his shoes or robes; he had a feeling they weren’t going far.

Ted slipped out the door as he held it open in front of him, and Blaise dragged his feet sluggishly along after him as they ascended the steps to the common room.

“This way, Blaise. Hurry.”� Ted urged him onward to the concealed door in the west wall. Blaise paused before the entryway and glanced at his best friend. Ted appeared to be fidgeting. 

“Go on then,”� Ted said, nodding at the door.

Blaise yawned, “Shouldn’t I be following you, Ted?”�

Ted was bouncing on the soles of his feet and glancing over his shoulder.

“Nah. It’s nearly time for me to go, Zabini. Just remember what I’ve shown you tonight, yeah?”�

“Go?”� Blaise stifled another yawn. “Go where?”� he asked and pushed at the common room door, revealing the frame in the hewn masonry as it popped free of its lintel and swung forwards.

“Don’t worry about that, just remember what you’ve seen and remember what I’ve said.”� Ted shoved his hands into his pockets, and the volume of his voice faltered as Blaise pushed the door open wide and stepped outside. Behind him, Ted didn’t move.

Turning around to grill him, Blaise noticed an odd, grey shimmer pass over the body of his best friend. Ted seemed to have become somewhat translucent, the edges of his body fading slightly and blurring with the dips and peaks of the common room furniture behind him. 

“Ah,”� Ted grinned, looking somewhat euphoric. “Don’t worry ‘bout me Blaise. We’ll see each other again, I promise.”� 

The ashen boy appeared tinted with the blue green of the dim lighting in the common room, and Blaise was beginning to see the dim outline of the leather couches through his torso. 

Ted looked past Blaise’s shoulder and smiled broadly, “She’ll help you Blaise. The girl with the gold eyes — I’m sure of it.”� He grinned again, and as he raised a hand to wave, the figure of Theodore Nott slipped into dimness, and vanished before him.

\---

“Zabini?”� A delicate hand was shaking his shoulder gently. “Zabini! Wake up!”� When he didn’t move, the owner of the voice shook him a little more forcefully.

Blinking in the dim light of the dungeon corridor, Blaise rubbed his eyes as they adjusted to the gloom. Before him stood a rumpled looking Hermione Granger, dressed in an overlarge sweatshirt, flannel pyjama pants and scuffed trainers. Her hair was mussed, as if she’d been rolling around in bed for a turn.

“ _Ciao_ , Granger,”� he muttered, stifling a yawn. She merely measured him with a tired stare. 

“What?”� He mumbled, rubbing at his face, determined to wake up enough and suss out why exactly the Gryffindor was in his dorms at such an ungodly hour. It was then that Blaise felt the cold floor beneath his bare feet. Glancing down; he realized he was standing in front of the witch in little more than his jade green boxer shorts and a tee shirt that was a shade small for his frame.

“I think you were sleepwalking, Zabini,”� she returned wryly.

She folded her arms across her chest and continued to size him up, her gaze lingering around his stomach for a moment, before she caught his eye. A flicker of acknowledgement passed beyond Blaise’s immediate consciousness — he’d been having the strangest dream. 

He cast a glance over his shoulder, furrowing his eyebrows and struggling to remember the rapidly escaping tendrils of something that had seemed so real. Behind him, the common room door stood ajar. In the hearth, the smallest embers of the fire were dying down to nothing. Strange, he thought blearily. “Could have sworn…”� he trailed off, shaking his head.

Turning back to Granger, the slightest of breezes passed around the two students, like delicate fingers sweeping over his shoulders. Blaise shivered and folded his arms — it really was damned draughty in the dungeons. 

“I don’t sleepwalk, Granger,”� he stated evenly. 

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Really? Well I suppose I may have just imagined you mumbling to yourself and stumbling around in the dark.”� 

Blaise harrumphed; the cold was waking him up in the most uncomfortable places. Loath as he was to fidget in front of her, he couldn’t stop himself from padding on the soles of his feet in place, shifting from one foot to the other as the chill numbed his bare toes. 

“And what, pray tell, dear Gryffindor, are you doing skulking around Slytherin territory at this hour of the night?”� 

The girl’s smirk wavered suddenly, her gaze dropping as she twisted her hands into the hem of her sweater. She was kicking around an imaginary clot of dust on the floor, following the progress of one shoe with her eyes lowered. Her voice seemed very strained when she replied. 

“I — I came here to, well —”� Throwing a cautious glance at him, “I couldn’t sleep,”� she whispered, raising her eyes. 

Blaise saw that they were unnaturally dark despite the flickering torchlight. 

“So, you see I wanted to —”� She gestured to a spot in the corner near the vanishing door to the Slytherin common room. Worried at what he’d find if he turned around, Blaise shifted his gaze slowly as he turned to face the small nook in the dungeon’s wall. 

A medium-sized mound of paraphernalia stood heaped into a darkened corner. 

Granger stepped closer to his side as Blaise took in the sight before him: at the center of it all was a small photo of a grinning Theodore Nott, alternately waving his fist and sticking out his tongue, pulling faces every at them both. Two white pillar candles stood in glass brackets on either side of the moving photograph, flickering continuously and casting shadows over the makeshift memorial. Flowers were piled on the ground without any particular arrangement or order, suggesting that a variety of different hands had laid them there. Blaise’s breath caught, and simultaneously, Granger’s hand reached out to wrap around the wide part of his forearm below the elbow. 

“I wanted to remember him,”� she said softly, her voice uneven.

Blaise sunk to his knees on the cold masonry, the smooth stone grinding at his flesh uncomfortably though the pain seemed very remote. She released him, but the soft brush of her pyjamas against his arm as he reached out and shifted some of the trinkets aside was ever-present. 

There was an arithmancy text, a few chess pieces, tattered playing cards, a place setting nicked from the great hall laden with food, a goblet filled with what appeared to be pumpkin juice and several small figurines. Some of the latter were cast in pewter, others hand-made from carved woods and painted — they looked like tiny women from various countries. Some were robed in black with skulls for faces, others were veiled entirely, and some bore a chipped white and red paint. 

Blaise recognized a small one, no bigger than the size of his thumb. The miniature deity was draped in black fabric, her face painted bright white. The wooden figurine’s arms were extended in opposite directions, one hand pointing towards life and rebirth, and the other pointing towards the doorway of death. She could have been Hecate, the Greek Goddess of the crossroads, but Blaise saw in her hollow black eyes that she was Genita-Mana, the Roman Goddess of death and life. Nearby was the small two-faced bust of Janus placed amidst shiny black raven feathers and sliced bits of apple with the seeds bared. It was hardly Halloween, and these unknown students had left offerings for Ted’s safe passage into the afterlife.

Blaise felt the trembling set in. It began in his hands, spreading up his arms and creeping into his shoulders. 

Slytherins wouldn’t have done this; the little vigil had to have been left by Ravenclaws or Hufflepuffs who still maintained the practices of the old ways. With Granger standing just behind him, Blaise had to swallow a sob when he realized that Gryffindors had partaken of the small shrine as well.

“How do you remember him, Granger?”� 

To Blaise, it seemed as if his voice were coming from very far away. The strain in his chest was back, throbbing dully within his ribcage. He clutched at the little idol, his eyes raking through the smaller photographs strewn amid the piles of food. Ted’s winking face beamed at him from every turn. Only in one place did he appear to scowl moodily — it was a snapshot where the ashen haired boy and the Italian were glaring at each other at a very close distance. As Blaise’s breath hitched, the photograph Ted Nott raised a fist and pretended to tweak photo-Blaise’s nose, the two boys broke into a slapstick impression and dropped out of the picture, with photo-Blaise in a headlock and photo-Ted straining his features in mock-effort. 

Behind him, in a small voice, Granger replied, “I remember Theo in arithmancy. We were partners in sixth year for a stretch.”� 

She paused.

“He was never deliberately cruel, never called me a mudblood or insulted my parentage… never to my face anyhow.”� 

Blaise choked out a strangled laugh, Ted was the nice one. Never set much store for the rules, but he looked out for his own. He looked out for them.

Blaise slumped forwards dropping the small figurine as his hands met the cold stone floor.

Ted looked out for them.

A series of images flashed before his eyes and he let out a strangled sob, the first tear cascading down his cheek. 

Ted was protecting them.

_White ceramic tile. Long streaks of crimson. Falling. Falling. The snap of a straight razor. Wait for Edsel. Watch for the book. Blaise’s journal. The Book. The girl with the golden eyes. Ted leading him from his bed into the hall. Standing at the sprawling green range of an Italian Villa. Mugello. Mugello. Medici. The setting sun burning everything in its path to cinders. Ted. Ted’s dead. Ted smiling one last time, the fire alight in his eyes. The snake eating its own tail. Follow me, he said. The girl with the golden eyes. The Book. The snake. She’ll help you, Blaise._

He howled, the pain in his chest exploding and washing over everything around him. It was done. It was real. Ted was gone and their bond was severed. Blaise clutched at his hair as the tears slid down his cheeks, over his chin and splattered the moving photographs of Theodore Nott at his knees. Granger swept around him and gathered his head against her chest. 

There Blaise stayed, clutching at Granger and sobbing before the last monument of Theodore Nott’s wasted life.


	5. Canto IV: Red Moon Rising

**Slytherin Solidarity  
Canto IV – Red Moon Rising (01)  
Summary:** The journal of Blaise Zabini falls open, revealing the story of the last Slytherins before the great battle begins. A house broken and torn from the inside, and the greatest of loves – lost to the ages.  
 **Pairings:** Blaise/Hermione  
 **Category:** Darkfic/drama/romance  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Disclaimer:** A non-profit adoration of J.K. Rowling’s characters. This edition was revised in April 2006, largely with the help of my beta, Paia.

 

\---  
 **Slytherin Solidarity  
Canto IV – Red Moon Rising  
(Part I/III)**  
\---

 

**October 2, 1997.**

_Alas, life stumbles onwards. It’s gangly gait reminiscent of times past when we didn’t consider exactly how far we had to leap in hops and bounds to get us from point a to point b. I’m reluctant to admit, where there exists a great gaping void in between there and now, I couldn’t muster the will to eloquence._

_Resignedly, it’s had me caught up in between mourning and self-induced insomnia._

_Dreams are more wretched than nightmares sometimes. Sod trying to sort it all out. It makes me feel sluggish and insipid trying to digest and process all that’s transpired over the course of the last three weeks._

_Strange how certain resilient portions of an individual’s personality seem to bubble up and break the skin at the worst possible opportunity. I sometimes wonder if the wills of the subconscious are trying to test me, prod at my weak points and force me to reconsider what it means to be born into an old family with predetermined ideals of loyalty and lineage. Since the incident (and I do not wish to go into lengthy detail – I simply can’t bear the humiliation), I can’t help but notice the differences between the members of my house and I. For example, it’s been nearly three weeks since Ted took his own life, and that episode outside the common room with Granger occurred. Perhaps it was the presence of another human being standing next to me trembling and leaking from the eyes that set me off, like a violent chemical reaction in a cauldron when two substances are added that react angrily with each other. I’d rather not think of it like that, so to this day I’ll maintain that it was the fact that certain individuals from various houses other than Slytherin did something more shocking than I’d ever thought to be possible. Leave it to Granger to be the one who flipped the proverbial switch. If I think on it too long, I really can see myself cracking under the implications._

_Written down, it seems almost flippant; perhaps I’ve a tougher hide than I thought. I miss Ted terribly, though, and perhaps in light of the circumstances, it renders me weak to admit it. Something broke that night; I can’t remember the last time I’d cried – not like that anyhow; the gibbering, slobbering, and wailing aren’t becoming of a Slytherin in any shade of light._

_The performance would have made my Grandparents proud. It was, I daresay, worthy of my last name._

_Perhaps in the future I should refrain from any outward expressions of melancholy or desperation. Or perhaps I should just beat myself around the head with a large rock; that would at least prevent the stares and inevitable questioning of my stability._

_Moreover, the ‘incident’ has left me bereft of any semblance of propriety. Granger has yet to cease throwing pitying glances in my direction. I’d like to think she’s trying to empathize, but really, one sympathetic gesture is surely more than enough for even a Gryffindor._

_I’ve learned that I should train myself to believe I no longer care, though I still catch myself glaring at her with thinly veiled contempt at mealtimes._

The table Blaise was sitting at jerked violently as Millicent dropped an armload of heavy books onto the polished surface. Blaise glanced up from his writing and gave the girl a wan smile.

“You look like hell, Zabini,” she said dryly. 

“I haven’t been sleeping,” he replied with a grimace. If that wasn’t the understatement of the century he didn’t know what was.

Ever since he’d awoken in the dungeon corridor facing a fading dream of Ted and a sleep bedraggled Granger pointing out an obvious tribute to his dead house mate, he’d only managed a few brief hours a night. Sometimes, he’d be shaken awake violently, seeing himself seated in a stark white bathroom as Ted informed him that he had to protect those he loved; and abruptly, the dream would shift. In the last few nights, he’d begun seeing his friends’ bodies in various states of decay. The worst by far had been that of a black, flapping veil being pulled back to reveal a dimly lit chamber, where a pale-faced boy stood over the bloodied remains of several corpses.

In short, Blaise found himself staying up as late as humanly possible, distracting himself with homework, reading, or staring at the canopy of his four-poster for hours at a stretch. More recently, however, he’d taken to wandering the corridors in stealth, sometimes climbing to the height of the North Tower and sitting there at the top of the school, watching the night sky before dawn broke with the mist and the dew. 

“You’re going to addle your poor excuse for a brain if you keep it up,” Millicent sneered, flicking a wadded up bit of parchment at his forehead. 

Blaise merely shook his head and looked back down at his journal.

“Yes, that’s right, Zabini. Just ignore me for good measure,” Millie smirked as she dragged one of her heavy volumes towards her. 

Still gazing intently at what he’d just written, he replied in a monotone, “You’re impossible to ignore, Mil. The Erumpent of Slytherin always makes her presence known five minutes before we can actually see her coming.” 

Blaise ducked with a chuckle as she lined up several more scraps of parchment and, with a wave of her wand, sent them soaring across the wide library desk and into Blaise’s raven curls.

“It’s not my fault I was born big-boned,” she sniffed resentfully. 

“No darling, you can blame your parentage or a poorly placed engorgement charm when you were still in nappies,” he replied lazily. Millicent scowled playfully and sent another volley of rubbish in his direction.

Blaise was still absently plucking bits of paper out of his hair as the library door banged open and Draco sauntered in with Crabbe and Goyle at his heels. Madam Pince, the librarian, practically snarled at the boys’ noisy entry, but did not leave her perch at the reference desk.

Across the table, Millicent snorted into her Ancient Runes text, “And you say _I_ have a flair for entrances.”

Draco was swaggering; a cheeky grin plastered across his pointed features as he dropped into the seat beside Blaise and leaned in conspiratorially. 

“Weasel here, yet?”

Millicent glanced around, and seeing that the nearby tables were devoid of life, she shook her head.

“Potter here, yet?” The blond’s grin was morphing into a smirk, his eyes narrowing. 

Millie shook her head again, a tight-lipped sneer beginning to take shape. Apparently, Draco had made it his prerogative to announce to anyone in the Slytherin common room shortly after the incident in the fourth floor corridor what Weasley’s implications had been regarding Ted’s death.

Needless to say, it had not gone over well with the members of their house. They were demanding Weasley’s head on a platter, bronzed if possible. 

Draco peeked around Blaise’s hunched shoulders. “No need to ask where Granger is; she’s still watching you like a hawk, Zabini.”

Blaise rolled his eyes in response and took a cursory glance at a table about five rows down. Sure enough, Granger was sitting amidst a teetering pile of books. In between muttering to herself and flicking through a large brown volume in front of her, she was glancing at him every few moments with her eyes narrowed. 

The last thing he needed was to have the muggle-born running her mouth off and divulging his gross display of grief. Thankfully, it seemed thus far she’d relegated herself to picking him apart mentally instead of running her mouth off to the entirety of Hogwarts.

Blaise smiled at her thinly. Unable to restrain himself, he raised his hand and gave her a caustic waggle of five fingers, which presumably passed as a sarcastic wave. She gasped at having been spotted, and knocked over a stack of parchments to her left. 

“Absurd,” Millie clucked, watching the ruffled Gryffindor collect her scattered notes from the floor.

“Perhaps you should put her out of her misery, Zabini,” Draco drawled from his left. He’d sat back to watch the spectacle with his arms folded across his chest imperiously. “A proper snogging might actually help her extract that broomstick from her arse.” He curled his lip. “Though I don’t see how you could bring yourself to actually _touch_ that.” He jutted his chin in Granger’s direction. “Merlin knows what sort of diseases Mudbloods carry.”

Goyle and Crabbe chuckled appreciatively from behind them. Blaise, however, trained his gaze on the Gryffindor, noting the slight flushed look and dishevelled appearance. Admittedly, she wasn’t bad looking – when she wasn’t threatening him or docking points, anyhow. Her hair was disastrous, unfortunately, though everything else seemed to be in its proper place and proportion. Blaise cocked his head and peered at her slim ankles below the table. Hell, if the bint was going to visually dissect him he might as well return the favour. 

“She might learn a thing or two from a _real_ Casanova rather than some carrot-headed prat – speak of the devil!” Draco chortled gleefully, as the library door banged open once again, admitting Ron Weasley tailed by a sullen-looking Harry Potter. 

Blaise scoffed and shook his head, muttering under his breath several choice Italian adjectives as the two Gryffindor alpha males passed by. 

“Well, chaps,” Draco hissed, a malicious glint in his grey eyes, “it looks as if Crabbe, Goyle, and I shall bid thee adieu. Feel free to stick around and watch the show.” He winked, sliding from his seat. Millicent sniggered, and Blaise stiffened as Crabbe and Goyle lumbered after Malfoy. 

Keeping his eyes trained on the pair of Gryffindors, now being tailed by his three housemates, Blaise leaned across the table and hissed at Millicent.

“What’s he planning, exactly?”

Millicent stuffed a meaty knuckle in between her lips and bit down between stifled giggles.

Across the library, Draco, Greg, and Vince had paused near a shelf in the Transfiguration section and were presumably browsing while Weasley and Potter had stopped by Granger and were speaking in low tones. Draco was making an elaborate show of plucking books off the shelves, bobbing his head and tapping his lower lip with his index finger. 

“Millicent!” Blaise hissed again, while Bulstrode was turning red in the face with stifled laughter as she bent over her Runes text.

Blaise had learned over the years to keep himself well out of the ongoing Malfoy-Weasley-Potter feud, but given the fact that they were in a predominantly public area with the potential of several unwitting students getting caught in the cross-fire, he was beginning to doubt Draco’s calculations. 

There were several legitimate rules Slytherins prided above all else. The first being: Never get caught. The second, ironically, was: If you do, blame it on the person next to you and over two paces. 

It was the second rule in the Slytherin code of ethics that presented a concern to the him at that very moment.

Casting a glance between Millie, who was doubled up, her faced pressed into the crook of her arm as she shook silently with unvoiced gales of laughter, and Malfoy who was sauntering jauntily down the row, while casting glances around the corner at the Golden Threesome, Blaise became acutely aware that something particularly bad was about to happen. 

He swivelled in his chair to find Madam Pince. The librarian was in plain view of the row of tables, shuffling through a card catalogue with rigid flicks of her wand. She did not seem pleased. 

The sudden movement seemed to have snagged Granger’s attention. She was eyeing Blaise outright, unmindful of the fact that Weasley seemed to be pleading with her to her left. 

“ _Merda_ ,” Blaise muttered as Draco swept out from behind the row of books and strode purposefully towards the redhead, readying to catch him off guard with wand in hand. 

Across the table, Millicent let out a loud snort of laughter, effectively earning a glare from the librarian, who had seemingly had enough outbursts in her otherwise quiet library. Millicent squeaked, her chin quivering as she tried to compose herself, as Pince stepped around the reference desk and stalked between the tables towards them. 

Looking between the quickly approaching Madam Pince, the Slytherins, and Weasley, Granger quickly caught on, following his gaze. Her eyes widened in recognition, but before she had the chance to give warning, Weasley and Potter were snatched bodily by Crabbe and Goyle, and dragged off into a row of books and out of sight. 

Blaise leapt up, toppling a chair in the process, as Pince descended on him and Millie.

“What is the meaning of this, Ms. Bulstrode? Mr. Zabini! Kindly restrain yourselves when in the library!”

Millie was biting the inside of her lip, tears sparkling in her eyes. “Yes, Madam Pince.”

“I’ll not tolerate disruption! Silence, please!” 

“Yes, Madam Pince,” Blaise muttered quickly, mentally willing the old bat to fly off somewhere as he righted his chair. Out of the corner of his eye, Granger seemed not to have noticed that her two best friends had been slung off out of sight.

“Oh! Madam Pince, before you go,” Millicent simpered in between breaths. “I was wondering if you had any recommendations on cancelling out Cheering Charms. Blaise seems to have hit me with a right good one,” she snickered. Blaise glared at the girl as she was led off by the librarian to a far corner, though not before Pince shot him with a reproving frown. 

Blaise turned quickly, practically jogging down the row of tables. Granger was still sitting amidst her mountain of reading material, watching him, unmindful of the fact that her two closest friends had just been manhandled by Slytherin’s two biggest gorillas and were probably having the stuffing knocked out of them mere feet from where she sat.

“Granger, I need you, now!” he hissed and snatched her by the sleeve, dragging her from her chair and hauling her after him, down the row where Malfoy had disappeared.

“Zabini! What –”

Blaise spun on his heel and snarled down at her. “Are you blind, woman?! _Non mi scazzare i coglioni,”_ he spat and continued striding down the long aisle with Granger in tow. 

“Zabini, I can’t understand you if you lapse into another language!”

Blaise gave her arm another harsh tug and turned a corner. 

“ _Cagati in mano e prenditi a schiaffi_ ,” he retorted snappishly before skidding to an abrupt halt. 

In front of them in a heap were Crabbe, Goyle, Malfoy, Potter, and Weasley. Arms, legs, and spittle were flying in every direction, though the only noise being made was coming from a gasping Draco who was pinned under Weasley’s left knee and being pummelled from the side. The grunts were being emitted by Crabbe and Goyle; while Vince attempted to sit on the Weasel’s head and Greg wrestled Potter to the ground. The Gryffindors, however, though their mouths were open in obvious howls, were emitting no noise whatsoever due to the fact that a heavy silencing charm had been placed on them both.

Granger, incidentally, was the only person in their midst to screech at full volume.

Forgetting his wand totally, Blaise threw himself at the closest person possible, which happened to be Crabbe.

“Crabbe,” he grunted. “Off.” He heaved on a meaty forearm. “Weasel,” Blaise huffed, tugging at the larger boy’s forearm. “Now!” 

The force when Vince relented was enough to send Blaise flying into Granger, knocking them both into a nearby bookcase and sending several thick volumes crashing to the ground on the other side. Blaise, however, didn’t get the chance to see if he’d crushed the witch or not because as soon as he’d righted himself, Weasley was upon him, fist flying and head lowered.

It took two swift punches to the stomach before Blaise’s fury kicked in, and he shoved the other boy backwards against the shelf. Pinning his flailing limbs, Weasley thrashed about, landing several strong kicks to the Italian’s shins.

Shrilly, from behind them, Granger screamed “ _Finite incantem!_ ” and the level of noise shot up, ricocheting off the walls in the quiet library. 

“You sack of shite! How dare you! I’m going to hit you so hard your grandchildren will feel it –” The flushed Weasley paused momentarily and stopped struggling against Zabini momentarily, now flinching from the severity of the idiot’s blows, as the Gryffindor seemed to realize he’d regained his voice.

A howl rose from Blaise’s left. He glanced quickly over his shoulder to see that Potter had freed himself from Goyle, and was limping backwards, wand raised, before Malfoy lunged at him and knocked him over once again, causing several more books to topple to the floor. At that moment, Weasley found the suitable window to let a fist fly, connecting with Blaise’s jaw. 

“ _Merdata!”_ he hissed as his vision cleared, and lunged for Weasley. “Listen you doddering pillock –” Weasley struggled against him breathing harshly. 

“Let go of me, damnit!”

In the meantime, Granger had leapt over a sprawled Goyle and was hauling Malfoy off Potter, as the first curse flew.

Blaise wrapped a hand around Weasley’s esophagus and leaned in. 

“Stop it! Stop struggling! I’m trying to end this fight you _f_ _essacchione!_ But if you keep kicking me, I swear on my grandfather’s grave, Weasley, I’ll rip you in half!” Blaise snarled, his face mere inches from the reddened, freckled, spitting Gryffindor. Blaise didn’t even see the curse coming.

_“Impedimentia!”_ someone roared from Blaise’s right. 

Everything in Blaise’s world had slowed down to a bare crawl. The expression on Weasley’s face was almost comical. Unfortunately, since the impediment jinx caught them both at once, Weasley’s open-mouthed snarl and Blaise’s creeping fist were moving at the speed of thick molasses. 

_“Protego!”_ came another, presumably from Potter.

_“Tarantellegra_ -AHHHH!” was the response from Malfoy.

_“Diffindo!”_ There was a distinct sound of cloth tearing, and a disgruntled oath from Goyle.

“Get off me, you filthy Mudblood!” Malfoy shrieked. Granger had launched herself at the blond and was presently clinging to his back, and beating him over the head with an open palm.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS IN MY LIBRARY?!”

Everyone froze abruptly as the shriek of Madam Pince reached them. The librarian stood, hands on hips, seething at the foot of the row. Her face was a blotched mess of purple and red, and her spectacles sat partially askew on her nose. 

Behind her, Millicent was snickering into her fist.

The tableau was composed of Granger, clinging to Malfoy like an irate baboon and gradually sliding off his back, Blaise clutching Weasley by the neck, Potter beneath the meaty knee of Crabbe, and Goyle standing stock-still in the midst of it; his trousers torn through the crotch – with just a bare hint of white boxer short peeking out.

“Never in all my years have I seen such a disgraceful display!” The aged woman was visibly shaking with rage, with little flecks of spittle raining on everyone as she continued her tirade.

“Ms. Granger! A Head Girl! This behaviour – in the LIBRARY!” She screeched. “MY BOOKS! How dare you desecrate my _BOOKS_ with such a Neanderthal-like display of total barbarism! Total disrespect! Never have I ever –”

“Madam Pince, please,” Granger tried softly as she disengaged her hold on Draco, who promptly shook her off and frowned disgustedly at his robes. 

“SILENCE!” Pince shrieked.

Weasley at least had the decency to flinch. Potter appeared rather groused as he knocked Crabbe’s wand out of his face and he stood.

“A Prefect as well!” the librarian cried, pointing an accusing finger at Draco, who sneered disdainfully in return.

“And you!” Pince rounded on Blaise. “I would have thought better of you Mister Zabini. Brawling! _You!_ Of all people!” 

“Madam Pince, really. Granger and I had come to break up the disturbance just before –” 

“Disturbance?” Pince hissed, her lip quivering in indignation. “Disturbance! I’ve never – an outrage! This,” she gestured frantically at the felled tomes, “is an outrage! An abomination!”

She took a moment to gulp a lungful of air before continuing. “Detention! All of you! You will all come here straight after supper and you will spit polish the floor, the desks, the windows!” 

Draco smirked, adjusting his collar, and completely unmindful of the fact that his platinum locks were in a state of ruffled disarray that would have him howling as soon as he caught sight of himself in a mirror.

“Do I make myself clear?” Pince barked. Several heads bobbed soundlessly before the book keeper turned on her heel and stormed off, muttering furiously to herself.

Granger gaped soundlessly, and Blaise found it impossible to restrain a snort of laughter. 

“It smarts, doesn’t it?” Draco sneered. “Being taken down a peg?” He snickered and brushed passed Granger, Crabbe following him with a glare at Weasley. 

“Oh, and Weaselby? Watch yourself.” Malfoy lowered his voice, “This isn’t over yet.”

Blaise leaned against a nearby shelf beside the redhead and brushed at the sleeves of his robes.

As Malfoy and Crabbe rounded the corner, he called over his shoulder, “You’ll get yours too, Potter. We promise not to leave you out of the fun!”

Weasley glowered as Goyle eyed him beadily. The larger boy moved to follow Malfoy’s progress out of the library, but not before pausing in front of the offending Gryffindor and towering over him for a moment.

“Mind your mouth, Weasley. You don’t need any more enemies in this school.”

In response, the freckle-faced git merely glared. Blaise surveyed the pair, waiting for Greg to slug him. The moment didn’t come however; apparently Goyle had had enough of his newly acquisitioned trouser ventilation and passed beyond the shelves.

“Well, Gryffs,” Blaise murmured, glancing between the three. “It’s been a pleasure, as always.” Blaise tipped an imaginary hat with a small salute to Granger and raised himself from the shelf.

“Thank you ever so much for the detention.” He smirked. “I’ll be sure to make your time this evening as miserable as humanly possible.”

“How are we responsible for getting attacked, exactly?” Potter questioned, his eyes narrowed. “If I’m not horribly mistaken, I could have sworn it was you that started it.”

Blaise rolled his eyes heavenwards and swung round to face him.

“No, Potter,” he replied exasperated. “Your mate Weasley here ‘started it’ when he decided to insinuate that ‘those evil Slytherins’ conspired against Ted Nott and killed him. Which, incidentally,” he sneered at the redhead, “is the most brazen request for a slow and painful death that I have ever had the misfortune of overhearing.”

“Like we believe that,” Weasley snorted, while wiping at a thin rivulet of blood seeping from his split lip.

Granger shot him a glare.

“I would thank you for not speaking on behalf of everyone, Ronald.” Granger shot at him.

Blaise cocked his head, and appraised her with narrowed eyes. 

“So you believe the tripe this bugger’s spewing at you, ‘Mione?” Weasley continued.

She stomped her foot and folded her arms. “I’ve explained it to you already, Ron. If you’d listened the first time, we wouldn’t be here, nor would we be serving detention tonight. Do you realize how much revision there is for N.E.W.T.’s?” she snapped quickly; too quickly in fact. Blaise smirked. She was hiding something.

Weasley snorted. “It’s barely October, Hermione.”

“That’s beside the point!”

Her cheeks flushed, and Blaise wet his lips. Something, clearly, was amiss here. 

“What is it then? Putting your eggs in a different basket so soon? I would’ve thought you’d learned by now that –” Weasley rattled on.

“Slytherins are slimy, evil gits, blah blah blah,” Blaise drawled, interrupting Weasley’s typical babble. “Right, well, I suppose I’ll let the Gryffindor collective bicker amongst themselves, then.” 

“Granger,” he nodded, allowing his gaze to linger on her just a moment. She appeared to shake herself, and then turned away slightly though she did not break his stare. 

“Potter,” Blaise nodded again.

“Weasley,” he said through pinched lips, taking the opportunity to advance on the carrot-top. “If I ever hear you breathe so much as another offence towards my deceased best friend’s honour, I will personally ground your flesh into a fine paste and feed you to the student body in their spaghetti and meatballs.”

The Weasel glared for a moment, returning Blaise’s furious expression, before he snorted outright in Blaise’s face. 

In return, the Italian shoved him back against the shelf forcefully and leaned into his ear. 

“Family recipe, you know. It’s considered a delicacy back home.” Blaise smacked his lips and smirked at the look of doubt that crossed the Gryffindor’s face. 

“ _Mi è piaciuto molto.”_ Pinching Ron’s cheek for good measure, he added brightly, _“Ti prendo a calci in culo, che cazzo. Ciao!_ ”

Rounding the corner, Blaise grinned cheekily as he heard Weasley mutter to his friends, “What did that pillock just say?”

\--- 


	6. Canto IV: Red Moon Rising (02)

**Slytherin Solidarity  
Canto IV – Red Moon Rising (II/III)  
Summary:** The journal of Blaise Zabini falls open, revealing the story of the last Slytherins before the great battle begins. A house broken and torn from the inside, and the greatest of loves – lost to the ages.  
 **Pairings:** Blaise/Hermione **  
Category:** Darkfic/drama/romance  
**Rating:** R **  
Disclaimer:** A non-profit adoration of J.K. Rowling’s characters. This edition was revised in April 2006, largely with the help of my beta, Paia. 

 

\---  
 **Slytherin Solidarity**  
 **Canto IV – Red Moon Rising**  
 **(Part II/III)**  
\---

 

At the dinner table, Malfoy reigned, recounting the day’s events while he held court. Ironically, the House Elves were serving _sugo alla bolognese_ that night and Blaise dug into his heap of food with relish. Their sauce would never compare to his mother’s cooking unfortunately, but while he was at school he’d make do with a reasonable facsimile of the native dish. 

“So,” Malfoy continued in his cocky drawl, “I nailed them both with a silencing charm, and Crabbe and Goyle plucked them right up from Granger’s side. The bint didn’t even notice, did she, Blaise?” he said, elbowing Blaise in the side and causing him to cough around his fork.

Blaise shot him a glare and swallowed with difficulty. 

“Too caught up with our rogue Don Juan, she was.” Draco smirked at Blaise, who scowled with some difficulty.

“Actually, Draco,” Pansy simpered while sipping her pumpkin juice delicately, “Granger’s supposedly been dating Weasley since early sixth year.”

Blaise picked up his napkin, using the cloth to hide his sneer while dabbing at his mouth.

“Tosh.” The blond waved her comment away absently. “All the more reason to keep her eyes open for future possibilities, I say. Anyhow, back to our rendezvous at the library – hauled the two Gryffindorks straight back to a spot in front of the Restricted Section, didn’t we boys?”

Goyle and Crabbe grinned, not pausing in the lifting of their forks to their mouths. 

Crabbe mumbled around a mouthful, sending a splattering of semi-chewed beef across the table, “Nithe, an istholated.”

Blaise snorted at the larger boy’s table manners, while Daphne stared at Crabbe unblinkingly. 

“You know that’s disgusting, don’t you?” she muttered, as Vince continued to chew open mouthed.

Glancing up from her meal, Millicent chuckled, “He’ll make a fine husband someday, he will. Pity his poor wife will have to run after him with a mop and bucket half the time.”

“Thut it Miwwy,” Crabbe retorted with a grin, continuing to munch his dinner with gusto. “Tha’ migh’ be you, thumday.”

“You could only be so fortunate,” she returned haughtily, those Blaise did not miss the slight reddening to the burly girl’s cheeks.

Draco raised his voice. “As I was saying.” He glared between Millicent and Vince for a moment, before turning back to the rest of the table and continuing loudly, “Two well placed trip jinxes later, and Goyle here,” the blond patted the burly boy’s shoulder, “flattened the bugger. Gave him a split lip – could have sworn I heard him crack a few ribs too.” Draco beamed. 

“And Potter?” Higgs questioned, his deep-set eyes casting a dark glance at the Gryffindor table.

“Thought you’d never ask, Terrence,” Draco preened, flipping a platinum lock out of his eyes and puffing his chest. “I took care of _Potter_ ,” Malfoy concluded, spitting the last word.

Blaise snorted again and spoke up, “What he means to say, Higgs, is that he sat on Potter until Malfoy pulled his wand and stuffed up a jelly legs jinx because Granger jumped him.”

Draco glared.

“What?” Blaise grinned innocently. 

“Mauled, more like,” Draco sniffed. “Dirty little beast that she is. Filthy Mudbloods, I still can’t believe that hoary old fool Dumbledore lets them into this school.”

Blaise rolled his eyes and continued eating. “You’ve said it yourself, Malfoy. It’s nothing more than a bit of genetics. She’s as much a witch as you are a wizard. ‘Mudblood’,” Blaise scoffed. “Honestly.” He smirked.

Across the table, Tracey dropped her fork, Pansy paled, and Greg choked, at which point Millicent began pounding him on the back while shooting a reproachful glance at Blaise. Terrence stiffened visibly, the knuckles on his fist white from clutching the butter knife.

“Is that true, Malfoy?” Higgs said coolly. “Bit of genetics?” 

Draco returned the pock-marked boy’s gaze evenly. “Hardly, Higgs,” his upper lip curling. “It’s not but Mudblood propaganda.”

Blaise remained with his fork dangling halfway between his mouth and plate, watching the exchange while realizing fully he’d just made an extremely sore blunder. 

“Funny,” Higgs replied, a distinct edge to his voice. All traces of merriment seemed to have vanished from his friends’ faces. Higgs turned on the Italian, his pale eyes flashing dangerously, “What about you, Zabini? Believe that Muggle-infused tripe?”

Blaise shot a glance at Draco, who was still watching the sallow-faced Higgs. Slowly, Blaise raised his head and surveyed the smaller boy through his curly black fringe. Along the table, the other Seventh years had fallen silent.

Slowly, a lazy grin spread over Blaise’s features. 

“Quarrel, Terrence?” he said silkily. “Or are you ruffled that you didn’t get a piece of the action this afternoon?”

Higgs watched him shrewdly, for a moment, before smirking. “Hardly, Zabini. Just curious where your loyalties lie, that’s all.”

Blaise pursed his lips, appearing thoughtful for a moment. Below the table, he could feel Draco’s foot pressing into his ankle, readying to deliver a sharp kick. Tracey and Daphne were watching the subdued confrontation with looks of distinct worry, while Pansy was delicately drawing her wand. She gave him a pointed look before glancing at Higgs and then meeting his gaze again. 

Blaise dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin, before giving Higgs a roguish grin. 

“With the winning side, of course.”

Higgs snorted and raised himself from the table, “Good answer, Blaise. You had me worried for a moment there. Wouldn’t want to send any letters to my father now, would I?”

Millicent snarled and stood up, towering over the smaller boy. She glowered down at him for a moment before her lip curled and she stated menacingly, “For your safety’s sake, I wouldn’t want you writing to your father either, Higgs.”

Terrence flinched slightly before responding, “Watch yourself, Bulstrode, we all know exactly what position you’re in.” Terrence puffed up his chest.

“What,” Millicent hissed, “is that supposed to mean?”

In response, he reached into his robe pocket slowly, his gaze not leaving Millicent’s, and extracted a rolled parchment sealed in black wax. The emblem of a skull baring teeth, a serpentine tongue protruding from its mouth, was pressed into the closure. He waved the parchment in her face, before tucking it safely back into his robes and patting the pocket idly. 

With a glance around him to assure that no one had seen the parchment, he growled in a low tone, “You’ll know soon enough, Bulstrode.” He leered. “Best sort out what side you’re on before your calling comes, I’d reckon. It won’t be pretty if you keep sitting atop the fence...people tend to fall hard from that lofty height.”

Meanwhile, Draco and Blaise stood as well. 

“Don’t worry yourself unnecessarily, Terrence,” Draco stated with a distinctly diplomatic air about him. “We still need to live with each other for another eight months or so. Let’s try to keep ourselves alive until then, shall we?” 

Terrence merely glared at Malfoy in return. 

“Furthermore,” Draco continued, “this discussion is best left to the sanctity of the common room, wouldn’t you say? It wouldn’t be prudent to brandish our… ah… political affiliations, to the entire school just yet.”

Terrence grinned crookedly. “Too right, Malfoy. I prefer the element of surprise, myself, but where’s the fun in keeping the peace when you can instil just a touch of terror?”

Blaise smiled wanly at the stringy boy and folded his arms. “I think I speak for everyone when I say we’d all prefer not to be martyred, thanks.”

Higgs snorted. “Right, Zabini. How many other Theodore Notts could we possibly come by?” he chuckled, before turning on his heel and striding out of the Hall.

Blaise’s nails were beginning to cut into his palm, so tight were his fists.“Blaise,” Pansy said worriedly from across the table. “Blaise let it go. It’s not worth it.”

Draco nudged him in the shoulder. “Let’s go Zabini; detention. Come on, we’ll find something on the way you can snap in half without being sent to Azkaban.”

Goyle and Crabbe stared at each other. Malfoy nodded at them, “Finish up. We’ll meet you at the library.” He gave Blaise another shove, and the two boys filed out of the Great Hall. 

As soon as they were beyond the doors and out of earshot, Draco spun Blaise around and forced him against the wall in an alcove.

“Zabini, never _ever_ do that again!” he snarled.

Blaise’s lip curled and he shoved Malfoy off roughly. Brushing off his sleeves he said evenly, “If you’d kindly not try to manhandle me, and explain to me where I went wrong back there, perhaps I will dignify you with a response to that.”

Malfoy raked a hand through his hair, tugging at it forcefully and closing his eyes. He appeared to be counting to ten and calming himself. Blaise smirked. It was ironic really, that both he and Granger, who loathed each other to the core, could be so similar in their mannerisms.

“It’s a myth, Blaise. No matter how offhandedly I made that remark a few weeks ago, never forget it’s nothing but muggle propaganda. Moreover, it causes much dissent when brought up among the old families – there’s too much to disagree upon.”

Blaise blinked and stepped out of the niche, heading for the stairs. He folded his hands behind his back, a gesture that was mimicked by Malfoy as a group of bubbling Hufflepuff first years dashed past them. 

“No running in the corridors!” Malfoy barked. The first years turned and, seeing the green lining of his robes and the small silver “P” pinned to his chest, slowed their pace to a quick shuffle. Draco smirked.

“No one really knows where the first wizards came from, Zabini,” he continued. “There’s been some speculation over the years but for the most part, the knowledge has been suppressed. We shouldn’t _need_ to think about this sort of thing. All we need to know is that we are superior,” he said haughtily. “Wizards are a breed apart – a higher species because we have been gifted with the natural ability to work magic. We have ruled over all else since the beginning – while muggles, though they may appear similar in form, are a lesser form of life. They are defective. They lack the thing that gives us our strength, and as such, they are no better than animals.”

“What’s that thing, then?” Blaise asked as they continued walking.

Draco shrugged. “That’s like asking what the Mysteries of Eleusis are. Some people said it was a gift from the Gods of Old, the Greeks, the Romans, the Celts, perhaps the Egyptians, or even farther back, the Sumerians and Babylonians who made some sort of exchange. They were chosen, they were given the power.”

“That sounds a little far-fetched,” Blaise muttered. 

“It’s the truth,” he snapped indignantly. “Other theories involve the conception of a perfect birth, a fusion between Gods and men, or between Gods and Elves, or fairies, or some other type of mystical anomaly that have since been wiped out. The Irish are convinced magic came from an older race of beings, the Sidhe, who gradually married into the non-magical world and produced offspring with magical powers.” 

Seeing Blaise’s smirk he added, “My father told me the stories when I was a boy, Blaise. What’s important to realize is that these ideas maintain a separation between magical and muggle.” 

“And your father is always right?” Blaise reigned in a chuckle. 

“Always,” Draco replied without hesitating. He raised his chin defiantly, as if challenging Blaise to say the contrary. “But what you said at dinner usurps every idea, every notion and inkling of what is true to us.”

“Genetics?” 

Draco launched himself at Blaise and clamped a hand over his mouth, a situation made extremely awkward since Blaise stood a foot taller than the blond. 

“Shut _up_ , you loud-mouthed prat!” Draco snarled. 

Blaise attempted to stifle his laughter with a cough, and instead, restrained himself to a toothy grin as Malfoy huffed at him with a scowl. 

“It’s a muggle thing, that – genetics,” he frowned. “Muggle scion-fists –” 

“Scientists,” Blaise corrected.

“Whatever.” Draco waved it off. “They have been dabbling in things that they shouldn’t for years. Wizards know about genealogy, of course; that’s how we’ve maintained the bloodlines. But –” he looked over his shoulder, checking that there was no one around to overhear as they ascended the first set of steps to the second floor. Quietly he whispered, “This ‘science’ nonsense is utterly ridiculous. How can muggles possibly compete with what we know? It’s not like they are capable of understanding _blood_ magic…”

“So what you’re saying is that there’s a potential that –”

Draco looked as if he were about to hex him quiet. Blaise scoffed but lowered his voice. “You’re saying that wizards may have come from a genetic blip?”

“That’s preposterous!” Draco groused, looking put out. “It can’t possibly be true. Even if there was some slim chance that a magical child was born from a purely muggle bloodline eons ago, it doesn’t explain how we’d survived this long. How we’ve prospered!” Draco jabbed him in the chest with a finger. “Its heresy, is what it is! It’s a crime against your own nature to say otherwise!”

Blaise glanced down at the finger poking him in the sternum, and raised an eyebrow. Draco scowled, tearing his hand away and stalking down the corridor. Within a few strides, Blaise was level with him again as they made their way across the landing.

“Either way, it’s not a notion that any _respectable_ pureblood wizard likes to entertain.”

“It would suggest that the entirety of the wizarding race and their prejudices are moot,” Blaise interjected. Draco glowered sulkily.

“This concerns you too, you know,” Draco returned. “Your blood’s as clean as mine.”

Blaise sighed and clapped his friend on the back. “Older too, I’d wager.” 

Malfoy opened his mouth to object, but Blaise continued, ushering him around the corner. “Malfoy, you really need to get over the mudblood crap. It’s so medieval.” 

Seeing that Draco was incensed, Blaise topped it off as they reached the library doors. “Progress, Malfoy. Progress is a good thing. One day you may find it to your advantage.”

“Blasphemy!” Malfoy squawked. “You don’t get anywhere by pandering to your house elves, do you? Why would you bother with the other vermin?”

“The other ‘vermin,’ as you so eloquently put it, are still part of the greater food chain,” Blaise murmured. “Besides, how can we really be sure of any of it? I’m not even sure who founded the Zabini line.”

“What?” Draco frowned, looking at Blaise as if he’d sprouted a second head. Malfoy went as far as to take a step back from him, so that he was drawn up against the library doors.

Blaise signed impatiently. “The first Zabini was born out of wedlock between a mysterious Stregoni and a powerful heiress from the Borgia clan. She sold him off, she did – abandoned her son without a second thought. My great great great great great great great great great great –” Blaise paused to take a breath; Draco rolled his eyes and leaned against the doorframe. “great great great –”

“I get it, Zabini!” Malfoy snapped.

Blaise exhaled, “great Grandmother Lucrezia. Bit of a nutter, she was; poisoned several of her lovers, had an incestuous relationship with her brother, married too many times to count, and had a penchant for murder and ruthless political ascension. It was probably for the best, to tell you the truth.”

Something shifted in Draco’s expression, his eyes flitting to a spot beyond Blaise’s shoulder, and his lip curled.

“It’s not that bad, Draco,” Blaise hastened to add. “Everyone in my family knows her lover was a wizard. She only chose the most socially appropriate, after all. It could have been her brother Cesare for all we know. Back then, you know, to claim the father of your child was the son of your brother…”

“No wonder your family is so duffed up, Zabini. Plan on marrying your younger sister anytime soon?” 

Blaise spun around. Weasley was grinning hideously, delighted by his own quip and standing beside Potter and Granger. Blaise paused, his eyes lingering on Granger a moment longer than the boys. 

“Gee, Weaselby, I think that’s the first time you’ve strung a coherent insult together,” Draco leered, stepping out from behind Blaise. 

“Congratulations are in order, wouldn’t you say, Malfoy?” Blaise said wryly, slipping his hand into his sleeve and unlatching the holster on his wand. He drew the tool out gracefully, holding loosely it between three fingers. 

Granger took the opportunity to step in front of her friend and fold her arms. “Don’t even think about it, Zabini.”

Blaise quirked an eyebrow. She held his gaze, her nostrils flaring slightly though a touch of rouge crested over her cheeks.

“Step aside, Granger; this isn’t your fight,” Draco snapped, striding forwards and bearing down on the petite witch. “Though if you’d like a more active role I’d be glad to curse you out of my way first.”

“You couldn’t charm your way out of a hatbox, Malfoy. Clearly your delusions of adequacy have affected your normal reasoning abilities,” she bit back.

“Here we go again.” Blaise rolled his eyes, and strolled back to lean against the door to the library. Nodding at Potter, he grinned and mouthed, “Best place to watch the show.”

“You flatter me, really,” Draco replied flatly. 

“For the love of – could you all just give it a rest?” Potter shouted. “I’m so bloody sick of this. If it’s not you two bickering like rabid chipmunks,” he gestured angrily between Weasley and Granger, “then it’s with them. It’s getting really old.” 

“Tetchy little thing, aren’t you Scarhead?” Draco snorted, swaggering closer to Potter, who tensed visibly.

“If that’s your excuse for a witty response you might want to _ferret_ around a bit more, Malfoy!” Potter snarled in return, taking a step forwards.

Draco bristled, his fists clenching at his sides.

“Malfoy –” Blaise began warningly.

“That’s right, Zabini, you’re not quite as big as Crabbe or Goyle but I suppose since Malfoy can’t do anything by himself –”

“Shut up, Weasley!” Blaise snapped. 

“Ron!” Granger echoed. “Malfoy! Both of you just _stop_ it!”

Draco whirled on Granger, “Don’t you dare presume to tell me what to do, you filthy little –”

“STUDENTS!” Pince barked from the doorway, abruptly putting an end to the confrontation. Blaise thumped the back of his head against the doorframe, and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. 

“Where are Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle?” she snapped.

As if in reply, several heavy footfalls echoed from around the corner. Draco huffed in frustration. 

The librarian pursed her lips sourly, and motioned for the students to hurry up.

With a smirk at Granger, Blaise heaved himself off the wall with exaggerated effort, and made a grandiose show of opening the door fully for everyone to enter the library. Draco shoved past them, knocking Weasley to the side with his shoulder. Potter merely shook his head and slouched through the entry after Draco.

Behind them, Crabbe and Goyle pounded down the hallway, robes flapping and their faces smeared with pudding. Goyle caught his breath just enough to glower at Weasley who was surveying the pair with obvious disgust.

“Inside, all of you,” Pince snapped, and the motley crew of Slytherins and Gryffindors filed in.

“I will be assigning each of you tasks for the next few hours. You will not leave the library under any circumstance; I will be setting wards at the entrance to see to it. You four,” she gestured to Crabbe, Goyle, Weasley, and Malfoy, “will spit-polish every single piece of furniture in here.” 

Pince summoned a bucketful of dirty-looking rags and several tins of polish from behind the reference desk. They came to a rest with a hollow clatter at Goyle’s feet.

Draco and Weasley grimaced appropriately, one because of the fact that he was forced into manual labour, and the other because he now had to work in close proximity to the Slytherins.

“Surely that can’t be sanitary, Madam Pince,” Malfoy began, and ceased abruptly as the librarian fixed him with a cold glare.

“Mr. Zabini, Ms. Granger, and Mr. Potter, you will be putting away books in their proper places. The carts are over there.” 

With a flick of the librarian’s wand, no less than twenty wheeled carts of books rolled squeakily from a back room. 

Blaise blew out a breath, a sentiment echoes a moment later by Potter. Granger however, was practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“Ms. Granger, I will entrust the material for the Restricted Section to you.”

“Yes, Madam Pince,” she replied tartly. Blaise pursed his lips at the girl and willed her to hear his thoughts – in his head he was loudly chanting the word “kiss-arse”. Unfortunately, Granger remained oblivious.

“There will be absolutely no magic permitted. Many of the books in here are fragile and very old; I will not have any of you mistreating them _again_. Do I make myself abundantly clear?” the librarian seethed. She was met with a scattering of muffled groans.

“I will return in exactly three hours to assess your progress. Good evening to you,” she concluded snappishly, and spun away from them, her squat heels making little noise as she departed.

Blaise shook off his robes and left them on the back of a nearby chair, meanwhile Draco could be heard cursing audibly as he picked up a rag and a small canister of polish by the tips of his fingers, holding them both at arm’s length he stalked off to a far corner.

Crabbe, Goyle, and Weasley dispersed, and Blaise was left with the two remaining Gryffindors. Granger flipped her hair back and declared with a distinctly commanding air that she would split the carts of books in three for them to sort through in “a more efficient manner.”

While Granger headed off to sort through their material, Blaise flopped against the counter of the reference desk to wait, and Potter sagged against the back of a chair. 

“Is she always this bossy?” Blaise remarked, watching the brunette sifting through the heaping carts. 

“Worse, actually,” Potter replied dryly. “You should see her when we have exams. She turns into a regular task master – er, mistress.”

Blaise chuckled. “Funny, Potter, I didn’t know you were into the commanding type.”

The Gryffindor flushed. “She’s, er, not really my type,” he said, scratching the back of his head absently. Blaise couldn’t help but notice out of the corner of his eye, the look the boy cast to the far corner where Malfoy was scowling disdainfully at a table, and dabbing at it gingerly with a cloth.

“Oh?” Blaise smirked, looking pointedly between Potter and Malfoy, to which the Gryffindor reddened further and stammered, “I’m just preoccupied.”

“Indeed,” Blaise rumbled, bemused. “Don’t worry, Potter, your secret’s safe with me.” Blaise winked. 

“Based on what, exactly? Your word as a Slytherin?” he snorted, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“My word as a Zabini,” Blaise replied evenly. “I’ll always be a Zabini before a Slytherin.” He nodded. “Besides,” he added airily, “knowledge is power.”

“Should have guessed,” Potter muttered, to which Blaise shrugged with a grin.

“Alright,” Granger said as she emerged from the back room, hauling several carts behind her with a compound locomotor charm. “Harry, you can have these. Zabini, those are yours, and I’ll take the rest.” 

Blaise grimaced, frowning for a moment at the bushy-haired witch, before casting a last glance at Potter and jumping straight up, clicking his heels together and saluting. 

“Yes sir, Granger, sir!” he barked, and frogmarched off with a cart, its wheels squeaking pitifully.

Behind him, Blaise heard Granger huff disdainfully. Casting a glance over his shoulder he was sorely tempted to toss himself over the cart and ride the blasted squealing thing down the rows screaming, “Weeeeeeeeee! Weeeeeeeeeeee!” just to irritate further. To his chagrin, however, he noted that although the Gryffindor had her arms folded over her chest, if he wasn’t much mistaken, he thought he caught the glimpse of a smile.

\--- 


	7. Canto IV: Red Moon Rising (03)

**Slytherin Solidarity  
Canto IV – Red Moon Rising (III/III)  
Summary:** The journal of Blaise Zabini falls open, revealing the story of the last Slytherins before the great battle begins. A house broken and torn from the inside, and the greatest of loves – lost to the ages.  
**Pairings:** Blaise/Hermione  
**Category:** Darkfic/drama/romance  
**Rating:** R **Disclaimer:** A non-profit adoration of J.K. Rowling’s characters. This edition was revised in April 2006, largely with the help of my beta, Paia.

 

\--- **Slytherin Solidarity**  
Canto IV – Red Moon Rising  
(Part III/III)  
\---

 

The next hour and a half or so passed rather uneventfully. Blaise made a point of dallying where he could, perusing both the old volumes in the sections of the library in which he’d never been, and the newer additions that seemed to pop up in places. Finally, bored out of his wits and sniffing the dust from the old tomes, he hunkered near the last row of the Muggle Studies section with a moderate stack of books piled in his arms, and flicked through the old spines to find the proper catalogue number to place them.

Shoving three copies of _The Man of la Mancha_ aside, he caught a glimpse of a pale, shapely calf just barely covered by a slouching knee sock, through the book stack. 

Granger seemed to have discarded her robes; an act of kindness to the male population, surely, Blaise thought, since she was rarely if ever seen without full uniform. 

Rising to his knees, he silently removed a few heavy copies of the muggle “Classics” from the second shelf from the floor. With Dante Alighieri, Virgil, and Homer stacked neatly on top of each other to his left, Blaise took in the creamy patch of thigh above her knees. Her uniform skirt riding up slightly as she stretched to reach a higher shelf, Blaise remained transfixed. The Head Girl had a damn-near fantastic set of legs. 

Smirking to himself, Blaise brought himself to full height and pulled several more volumes out from a higher shelf. He had to stoop to get a proper view; Granger was standing on tip toes and struggling to reach a higher shelf, the expression on her face determined. She hadn’t yet noticed that Blaise’s face was directly in her line of sight.

“ _Siete così bei_.”

The words rolled off his tongue before he could stop himself. He grinned as she started and leapt backwards with a gasp. A number of heavy books falling off the shelf with the displacement, Granger stared right back at him through the small gap in between the large tomes. 

“Zabini!” She flushed, her chest heaving slightly, tugging the plain cotton oxford a little tighter against her breast. It was, Blaise reckoned, a marvellous sight. 

“What are you doing?” her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Just admiring the view, Granger.” He flashed her a bright grin. 

“You look feral when you smile like that,” she stated, and promptly folded her arms across her chest protectively.

Blaise let his eyes drop to the pale line of her throat, the opened buttons of her shirt collar, down to her waist and back up again to meet her eyes. 

He shook his head, the wisp of an old dream of Ted returning to him, and then flitting away again too quickly for him to grasp. What was he doing exactly? It had to be written somewhere in the Slytherin code of ethics that checking out Gryffindor girls was strictly prohibited. 

He shrugged and dropped his gaze. Determined to break his current line of thought, he said the first thing that came to mind. “Need a hand?”

She nodded slowly, and Blaise strode around the aisle. 

“Which ones?” he asked, not meeting her gaze, but rather, fixing his eye on the wobbly trolley beside her.

“It’s just these,” she said cautiously, holding up a few scattered volumes. With a nod towards the cart, she concluded, “Those are the last batch for the Restricted Section.”

A glint of gold caught his eye on the stack. Granger had turned her back and was placing several books carefully in their respective places, so Blaise took the opportunity to advance on the trolley. A thick, worn, leather volume lay beneath several others. But this one in particular was unique. Hanging from its side, a large, tarnished lock bound the pages together. It protruded from the depths of the stack like an angry red fist.

Blaise shifted the others aside, piling them on top of each other haphazardly and unmindful when they began to slip – their weight pulling them to the ground despite his best efforts to keep them upright. 

Blaise was not paying attention as the first few books banged to the ground noisily; his attention was fixed, and for the second time, he saw a familiar sight. 

“Do be careful, would you?” Granger reprimanded him, not turning around. “I’d rather not have another detention because you were clumsy.”

Blaise ignored her. It was the sigil he’d worn on his arm in the dream he’d had the night Ted had died; the snake devouring its own tail, gilt in fine detail and gleaming against the worn face of the book. In the center of the circle, a golden apple was embossed on the cover, bearing a single word in Greek. It read simply, “ΚΑΛΛΙΣΤΙ”.

“Shit,” he whispered, reaching to trace the tiny, ornate scrollwork seared along the edges. The ancient book was at least as thick as his fist, and a thick, bronzed lock and keyhole hung over the side, clasping its pages in a vice-like grip. 

His fingers hovered over it, tingling slightly and unwilling to actually make contact with the old leather.

A throbbing, electrical current pulsated from the book’s depths. It seemed to whisper to him, like a string of voices fusing together in one rising harmony. Never in his life had he known such a seductive sound.

“Granger,” he swallowed thickly, fingers mere millimetres away from the words etched into the raised golden apple. “What is this?”

The Head Girl turned slowly with a heavy sigh. Seeing where Blaise’s hand was, she leapt on him, snatching it back. He swallowed, acutely aware that his mouth had gone dry, and still not wanting to draw himself away from the book. 

“Don’t touch it,” she hissed. 

Wisps of fluffy brown hair draped across her face, making her resemble an excommunicated Amazon in a school uniform. 

“Can’t you read? Look at the apple!” she cried shrilly.

The hand clamped on his wrist was shaking visibly. Blaise glanced at the seal on the book’s cover again. 

“I can’t. It’s in Greek, Granger,” he said absently. The song swelled when he gave it his attention. 

“Zabini,” she said briskly. “Snap out of it. Look at me.” She patted him roughly on the cheek.

He winced, grimacing at her rough treatment. He could feel the first pinpricks of a headache emerging behind his eyes. 

“What is it?” he asked, noting that the witch had yet to release him from her clutches. 

“The inscription on the apple reads, ‘To the fairest’. It’s an archaic symbol. And this,” she nodded at it, not letting his hands go lest he try to touch it again, “is one of the oldest books in existence. It’s an extremely delicate text; it’s also allegedly one of the most volatile.”

“So,” he said cautiously with a bare hint of malice behind his words, “I can’t touch it because I’m a blundering wastrel, and I’ll tear it to shreds?”

The Gryffindor huffed. “No,” she replied, a distinct edge to her voice. “You can’t touch it because you’re a boy.”

Blaise snorted. “A sexist book, then?”

“Hardly,” Granger replied flatly, finally releasing his wrists. “It’s said to be written by the matriarchs of long ago. They laid curses into it so that only those of pure enough intent could read it without going mad. Incidentally, at the time it was bound, the witches that created it ensured that it could only be read by those who were bound to them by their lineage, their descendants. Since the society was ruled by the eldest women, they entrusted the book to the next generation of women.” She paused, taking a breath.

“I can’t touch it because it hisses and spits at men,” Blaise chuckled, and leant against a shelf. “Incredible. I take it you’ve read it, then? Seeing as how you fulfil the necessary requirements and all. Do you have to be a virgin as well?” 

Granger blushed deeply; two fine pink roses appeared in her cheeks as she picked up the book and clutched it to her chest. Blaise barked a laugh in return, amused by her discomfort. 

“We haven’t been able to open it, actually. It’s been charmed by so many different witches that the book’s as protected as a Gringotts vault. I’ve been trying though; it’s been my extra credit project for History of Magic since...” She paused, her gaze flitting to his for a moment, and then turning away. “For some time, now, actually.”

Blaise smirked. “Only you, Granger, would try to crack the curses on an ancient spellbook for bonus marks.”

She glared. “It hasn’t been opened in more than five hundred years, Zabini. Nor is it just some ‘spellbook’, it’s the _Principia Discordia._ No one knows what’s in it exactly, but it’s been classified as highly dangerous material by the Ministry of Magic, and it’s been kept under lock and key by Dumbledore for as long as the Headmaster can remember.”

“Why isn’t it kept at the Department of Mysteries, then?” Blaise cocked an eyebrow. “Furthermore, how is it that a student can get her hands on it, but not some renowned scholar?”

Granger worried her lip; she seemed to be weighing her answer. “It’s here especially on loan. Professor Dumbledore thinks it may be useful in the future –” 

“For the war,” Blaise finished for her. 

Granger scrutinized him silently, her eyes alighted in the torchlight. Blaise had thought it only a rumour, but the girl really _did_ get off on old books. He repressed a snort.

“If I asked you not to tell anyone about this,” she began guardedly, “would you keep it secret?”

Something in the back of Blaise’s brain snapped. The image of being curled on the dungeon floor with the witch cradling his head as he sobbed into her shoulder swelled, leaving him to remember the scene in vivid detail. He flinched inwardly, recalling the lingering smell of vanilla in the girl’s hair, the soft and delicate touch of her fingers on his shoulder as he’d cried for Ted. 

“You think you can trust me so easily, Granger?” Blaise eyes narrowed. “Me, the redeemed Slytherin?” He began advancing on her slowly, though she held her ground, with the book clutched against her chest. “Just because there’s no Mark on my arm, doesn’t mean I’m on your side. One incident where you saw me break down doesn’t mean I’m any less the sarcastic, evil bastard that your housemates make me out to be. I’m your rival, Granger, not your confidante. Never forget that.”

Granger narrowed her eyes, she appeared to be considering.

“Let’s barter, then, Zabini.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Granger you tart,” he murmured with mock-lasciviousness. “What could you possibly offer me?”

She hesitated, inclining her head slightly. From the telltale blush she attempted to hide, Blaise was satisfied to note that he’d ruffled her.

Coming to a decision, she slowly turned the book around so the ouroboros and apple were facing him. Blaise faltered as the soft, hypnotic lull of the book washed over him. 

“My confidence, for yours,” she said in an undertone.

He pursed his lips. 

Eyes not leaving the book, Blaise answered, “Now you’re speaking my language.” 

\---

For the sixth night in a row, Blaise couldn’t sleep.

He’d left the library earlier that evening after establishing certain terms with Granger. It was with much aplomb that Blaise relayed to her his desire to join her in the undertaking of “breaking the book.”

Clearly, he’d been off his head.

He rolled onto his side, and punched his pillow to force some of the feathers to shift so he’d be comfortable. Instead, his head sunk two inches, and with mounting frustration, he flopped back onto his back.

What had come over him?

Blaise squeezed his eyes shut. She’d offered a deal – she would not mention to anyone his shameless display in the dungeons, if he agreed to be bound to secrecy about the damnable book. 

He should have agreed to it then and there.

“ _Merda_ ,” he muttered, tossing an arm over his eyes.

Somehow, she’d bewitched him into thinking he could be useful. He’d research the binding charms and curses used on its old and worn cover while Granger would try to crack it open.

It had to be blackmail. She’d probably been conspiring against him for months. That, at least, would explain why she’d wound up in the dungeons the night after Ted’s death.

Blaise winced. 

What would Ted say if he could see him now? Badgered into extra-credit work by a Gryffindor; a stuffed-up, self-important, overachieving Gryffindor at that. Well… “badger” was an especially strong word all things considered. Truth be told, all she’d done was dangle the damned book in front of him and he’d practically torn the thing out of her hands. 

Still, he thought, staring into the inky blackness of his bed canopy, the symbol on the book’s cover was familiar. Could there have been a connection to Ted’s suicide? Was there something in the book that would make things clearer? 

Perhaps if he filled his time, if he didn’t permit himself the time to think on it, he’d exhaust himself enough that things would return to normal. When they did, he hoped that his recurring dreams of Ted would end. 

Blaise desired nothing more than to understand the repeating images that weaved themselves about his skull. More deep-seated however, he found the craving to avenge Ted’s death occupying his thoughts as he lay in his dormitory, staring at the canopy. The nagging suspicion that by opening the _Principia_ he could find some resolution, settled him, if only a little. 

It was just easier to blame to witch for putting him in this situation. Damned woman, he thought, why had she shown up at precisely the worst possible moment? Blaise didn’t believe her excuse that she and Ted had been on amicable terms for one second. Ted would have said something. Ted told Blaise _everything_.

Frustrated, Blaise flipped the sheets and rolled from his bed. The bedside clock flickering alternately between 4:14 a.m. and “Time to Sleep”, Blaise quietly trod across the dormitory, collected an assorted array of clothing and hastily threw them on. Donning a warm cloak over his robes, he passed silently beneath the snores of his sleeping housemates and slid up the stairs, through the common room, and into the dungeon corridors. 

Hardly noticing where his feet carried him, Blaise tuned out his surroundings and continued onwards, ascending the staircases and passing through the darkened corridors without so much a though to the school’s caretaker or the need to slip by unnoticed. 

Thoughts of what Higgs had said over dinner nagged at him. At least now he knew that one had made their choice, though it wouldn’t be confirmed until he saw the Mark on his arm, then he would be certain. He wondered vaguely if this would be the method by which he found his friend’s loyalties; it was, after all, not his war. 

Blaise had every intention of escaping to his homeland promptly after graduation. He’d convince his parents to steal away with his youngest siblings – there was simply no choice in the matter. They couldn’t be part of it when death decided to stumble onto their doorstep.

Somehow, he’d convince his father, and his father would persuade his mother to leave. There were other wizarding schools in Europe for Victoria and Emily, and surely his Grandmother would agree. She, after all, still lived in Italy at their Villa. His family need not stay here and wait for the worst.

Before he knew it, Blaise found himself ascending the steps to the North Tower. He could watch the dawn rise from the topmost turret. The fingers of early morning light would wash him clean, burning away the last traces of his uncertainty.

Pushing open the wooden door to the spire, Blaise stepped out into the darkness and the chill. Overhead, the Blood Moon hung bloated and orange in the night sky, a fat orb dripping its weak glow on the sleeping grounds that stretched out far below.

He sighed, drawing his cloak tighter to himself to ward off the chill.

“I was wondering when you’d show up.” 

Giving a start, Blaise scoured the moon-tinged gleam around him. 

“Who’s there?” he called out, automatically reaching for his wand and unsheathing it.

At the edge of the turret, the air seemed to shimmer, as if something was giving off heat. In a second, however, the rippling space shifted as a cloak was pulled back revealing the tousled, messy black hair of a small boy. In the moonlight, a glint reflecting off his spectacles, the disembodied head of Harry Potter floated. 

Blaise blinked. Not lowering his wand, he reached down to the fleshy part of his thigh and pinched himself hard.

“Sweet Janus!” he yelped. Obviously, he was very much awake, if not a little disturbed. “Potter, where’s the rest of you?”

The Gryffindor repressed a grin as best he could. “Relax, Zabini, you’re not hallucinating.” 

Bemusedly, Potter pulled apart the opening seams of a cloak, displaying a baggy assortment of muggle clothing beneath the delicate, shimmering fabric. “Look, all in one piece.” He grinned hesitantly.

Blaise re-holstered his wand and approached the edge of the tower. “I am way too tired for parlour tricks, Potter. Shit,” he breathed. “I think I’ve just had a kitten or two.” Blaise shuddered as he sank to his knees, and plopped down on the cold stone. 

Potter knelt next to him, regarding him cautiously. “You okay, then?”

“Fine, fine.” Blaise waved the question away. 

He wasn’t about to roll into a drawn-out conversation about his former best friend cropping up into his nightly dreams, or his sudden frustration with the Granger girl. Blaise pondered for a moment if his paranoia stemmed from the brief haunting. Though it had only been one day of random appearances, Blaise highly doubted Nott had stuck around much longer after that. After all, he would have shown himself since then… wouldn’t he?

Brow furrowed, Blaise surveyed the Gryffindor. 

“What are you doing here, Potter?”

It came out sounding harsher than he meant it to; inwardly Blaise flinched at his cool exterior. When he’d arrive home for the summer, his mother and aunt would definitely set his attitude right; they reinforced everything with the back of a wooden spoon half the time.

The Gryffindor shrugged and flopped down beside the Slytherin. 

“I’ve been seeing you come out here for the last couple of nights. I considered going elsewhere, but the choice of towers gets limited after a while.”

“Right,” Blaise replied restrainedly. “You’ve been spying on me, have you?”

Potter glanced at him briefly before turning his attention back to the castle grounds. “Not quite. I come out here for the same reason you do.”

Blaise blinked. The kid was a little presumptuous, wasn’t he?

“To think,” Potter finished. 

“Well I can’t argue that,” Blaise groused. “So what’s the deal with the glamour?” he asked, nodding at the crumpled up silver and grey fabric pooled around Potter’s feet. 

“Invisibility cloak,” the Gryffindor shrugged. “Family heirloom, it comes in handy.”

“I see.”

“Look, this may sound a little strange, Zabini, but I need to confirm something.”

Blaise stared at him blankly for a moment. At least one thing was established: they didn’t teach you how to be discreet at all in Gryffindor. Blaise smirked to himself and leaned back on his hands.

“Go on.”

Potter took a deep breath. “Hermione mentioned something that she saw at the beginning of term, or rather, something that she didn’t see. She’s convinced that there’s a lot more going on that we don’t actually spot up front. I’d like to give her the benefit of the doubt.”

Blaise, returning his gaze evenly a moment, before lifting himself off his hands and rolling back his sleeves. Seeing the flesh on both of his arms was bare, Potter merely nodded and turned his focus back to the desolate and shaded grounds of Hogwarts.

“It doesn’t mean anything, you know, Potter.”

The boy remained silent, so Blaise ploughed onwards.

“Trust between our houses has worn rather thin over the last millennium. Just because I don’t carry some abysmally disgusting tattoo on my forearm doesn’t make me any less of a threat.”

Potter’s gaze remained trained ahead of him. Blaise sighed.

“Don’t expect me to act like some sort of redeemed Slytherin. My loyalty remains as it always will. I’m not emancipated. I’m not an anomaly. I’m not justified, self-righteous, or brave. Nor do I possess the will or the want for some cause that ventures beyond my sphere of existence. I’m looking out for myself, Potter. It would bode well to remember that.” 

Potter continued staring ahead. 

“It’s not my war,” Blaise finished quietly.

“And Nott?” Potter asked, his gaze shifting to look at the stars above.

Blaise stiffened. “Nott will be avenged appropriately.”

“Then it is your war, Zabini,” Potter replied. 

Blaise stared at the bespectacled boy, his mouth hanging partially agape before collecting himself. “What would you know about it?” he hissed softly. 

Potter tilted his head to look at him. “He’s taken people from me that I loved, too.”

Blaise gaped. “Shit, Potter. For a second there, you sounded exactly like a Slytherin I know.”

The Gryffindor snorted, “The Hat tried to put me in your house first year. With good reason, I’d say. My vengeful side seems to like taking over these days; seems like it’s the only thing left that gives me purpose.”

“Huh,” Blaise smiled ruefully. “I’ll give it to you, Potter. I thought I had you pegged.”

He shrugged with a grin of his own. “Call me Harry. We’re on the same side, after all.”

“I think, _Potter_ , it would be best not to advertise that fact just yet.” Blaise muttered. “Though I can’t give you all our secrets, there’s a lot left to be said about Slytherin house today that has yet to come to light.”

Potter nodded and turned his gaze back to the night sky; Blaise leaned back again to watch the moon as it sunk lower against the horizon. 

“Red moon rising,” he said absently.

“It’s an omen,” Potter replied almost wistfully. The orange globe smiled down at the two boys, a fattened hunter reigning in the stars and swirling wisps of cloud. “Saturn’s retrograde, and there’s a ring around Selene,” he pointed. “Studied them quite a bit after third year; kept seeing the Grim everywhere.” 

“Trelawney,” Blaise stated flatly.

“Yeah,” Potter frowned.

“Crazy bint’s never been right, though. I wouldn’t think on it twice.”

Potter frowned and looked down at his scuffed trainers. “I wouldn’t be so sure, Zabini.”

There was a prolonged silence which Potter finally broke after a few minutes.

“Did you mean that, this afternoon?”

“What?”

“About the spaghetti and meatballs bit.” 

Blaise chuckled. “Don’t be so naïve, Potter. Weasley would be far too stringy to serve in a proper tomato sauce.”

Potter stared at the Slytherin, a look of horror passing across his features momentarily, which caused Blaise to laugh outright. 

“No, I wouldn’t,” he conceded. “Some of my relatives, however… I wouldn’t put it past them. My grandmother has the family recipe book, if I recall.” Blaise cracked a grin at the Gryffindor. “Crazy lot, those Florentines.”

“So,” Potter hesitated, “you’re Italian, then?”

Incredible – a Gryffindor actually trying to make polite conversation. A year ago he’d have thought the most they were capable of was pummelling each other senseless en lieu of engaging in banal chit chat. Blaise masked his surprise at the flow of their conversation, and smirked instead.

“I’d have thought that was rather obvious, being named ‘Zabini’, and all. It’s like a rude smack upside the head.”

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I live with my aunt and uncle. Muggles – a particularly awful lot, you know. Never gave me much opportunity for experiencing culture.”

“Right. That bit about the closet true, then?”

“Cupboard. Yeah,” he replied somewhat stiffly.

In the east, the sky seemed to be purpling somewhat, the velveteen blackness beginning to retract and seep into a deep ultramarine. 

“Well, at least you’re _out_ of the cupboard now.” Blaise snorted. 

Beside him, Potter paled considerably. “About that –”

“Can’t have many regrets, Potter,” Blaise interrupted. “You just have to take what life dishes out and go with it, you know. Make it your own.”

Potter stared blankly. “What do you mean?” 

“You can’t choose who you’ll be born to or what conditions you’ll live in while growing up. The important thing is that regardless of the circumstance, you’ve got to carve out your own place for yourself.” Blaise shrugged. “We all do it, but with some people it’s more apparent that they’ve actually picked up the knife.”

There was a long silence. 

Finally, Potter spoke so quietly Blaise could barely hear it over the rolling wind. “That’s what Nott did, wasn’t it?”

Blaise glanced down at his robes ruffling around him. Ahead, the sky was taking on a faint pink hue. A feeling of vague deja-vu passed over him lightly, though he brushed the sentiment aside without a second thought.

“Yeah.” Blaise squinted at the breaking dawn, partially to veil his expression. He didn’t want to show any inkling that talking about it only pained him. “Literally.”

\---

Some Italian Translations: It’s a real piss off when you don’t speak another language, so here are the translations (there’s quite a bit of cursing, I should warn you). 

_Merda:_ Shit!

_Non mi scazzare i coglioni:_ Don’t break my balls.

_Cagati in mano e prenditi a schiaffi:_ Shit in your hand, then slap yourself in the face.

_Fessacchione:_ Fucking idiot

_Mi è piaciuto molto:_ I’ve had a great time.

_Ti prendo a calci in culo, che cazzo:_ I’m going to kick your ass, you dick. 


End file.
